


Recipe for Demi-saster

by Imagineitdear



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: #forevergay, Aaaand smut, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baker Steve Rogers, Baking, Because demis take their TIME, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes is gay in all of my stories, Demisexual Steve Rogers, Every recipe needs a bit of salt, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff and Humor, Gay Bucky Barnes, Happy Ending, I'll add tags as we go, In the little town of Mar Vel, Little teaspoon of Angst, Lived the entire cast of the MCU, M/M, Massage, Panromantic Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Stress Baking, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top Steve Rogers, Virgin Steve Rogers, Youtuber Steve Rogers, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2019-12-27 01:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18294062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagineitdear/pseuds/Imagineitdear
Summary: When Steve finally realizes he isn't broken, he settles in for a nice life of cookie-baking and kinky porn. Gone are the days of trying to push himself into flirting, no-strings-attached sex, or awkward dates with near-strangers. Gone is the nagging self-doubt that he should want things exactly how everyone else does.Years later, on one of his least favorite days of the year, he re-meets one of said no-strings-attached hookups from his past. Who just moved in down the street and seems to want to be friends now. After having a great time for *once* on a Fourth of July, Steve wants the same.But he’s forgotten something rather important: for demi-sexuals, there's no place more dangerous than the friend zone.





	1. I'm a Weir-Dough

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the fic I was *not* planning on posting next...welp. Here we are.
> 
> I hope you've all been well. And are ready for some stucky! I should be posting once a week, probably every Sunday. If you have any questions about demisexuality, or would like to give your input/share your experience as a demi, I'm all ears. This fic isn't complete and I want it to be as authentic as possible. BUuuut also fun? I don't know, I think being demi can be a ton of fun and I wanted more fics exploring it so, well, I wrote one. This seems to happen when the Ao3 search fails me. Hehe. Enjoy!

* * *

It’s a new recipe. Steve has to keep telling himself that, when the first batch of red, white and blue cheesecake swirl cookies come out looking like an un-artistic child with anger problems smashed different colors of play dough together.

 

He growls quietly, turning on his phone for the umpteenth time and getting more dough on it. His Pinterest app takes forever to load--maybe because of how much he has stored in it--and it's probably high time to sacrifice a few more apps. Or buy a new phone, like he'd meant to last year.

 

Finally the page loads. And of course, the displayed cookies in the picture are disgustingly perfect, with a measly explanation of technique. Perfectly swirled in Halloween orange and black, perfectly shaped, not a single crack.

 

Steve wonders how many batches it took to finally have six worth showing. He pops the ugliest of his into his mouth--ow that burned--and is glad to note they’re at least worth eating. But there's still four more batches to go. He sighs, looking over his three cookie dough bowls died in patriotic colors, and decides to forego the internet’s advice and just wing it for his second batch. Things usually end up working out better that way anyway.

 

That is, till a few minutes before the second batch are ready, when the doorbell rings.

 

“Coming!” Steve calls, assuming it's Peter as he'd volunteered to help carry over the cookie plates to the party. Steve opens the door with a smile on his face to let the kid in, but immediately freezes as he sees who's on his porch.

 

Well, things just _can't_ go well on a Fourth of July.

 

Bucky Barnes looks just as surprised to see him, at least, eyes bugging and shoulders leaning back like he's dodging a blow. He's got longer hair now, and a little more muscle, but there's no mistaking the guy Dum Dum set him up with years ago, telling Steve, “This guy would fuck a game controller, he won't care if he's popping your cherry Rogers.”

 

(He did care.)

 

“Steve?” he asks, like he can't figure out what Steve is doing in his own house.

 

Steve manages a hesitant chuckle. “Hey, Bucky, what are you doing around here?”

 

Bucky seems to get a hold of himself then, blinking his eyes back to a regular size and half-grinning. “Wow, hi. Um. I live here--not _here_ , of course, you live here, I mean--2244. Number 2244, I live there, down the street.”

 

It makes some semblance of sense then.

 

“Oh, you took Old Ross's place,” he nods, and Bucky snorts.

 

“Is that why it smells like old people?”

 

Steve laughs, and Bucky laughs too, and for a second it's not awkward. Steve remembers actually liking the guy, even if Steve ended their night together with a meltdown. But now he’s back to wondering what Bucky's doing on his porch. “Well, it's good to see you,” he says, even though it's mostly just weird, “when did you move in?”

 

“Just yesterday,” Bucky says. "Tony drove by and invited me to the neighborhood cookout that's apparently today, and I made salad, but . . . I just realized a few minutes ago I have no idea where. He didn't mention an address.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Probably because in about an hour, it's going to be ridiculously obvious,” he tells him.

 

Just then Peter comes running up the lawn, wearing a sleeveless shirt with the American flag on it and as usual, a crappy pair of flip flops that make him stumble on the lip of the porch. Steve almost jumps forward to save the kid from face-planting, but he re-balances himself just in time.

 

“Mr. Rogers! Sorry I'm late, Mr. Rogers,” he gasps as he stops just next to Bucky, nearly doubled over as he tries to breathe. “Sorry, Aunt May was having me mix the potato salad, but I accidentally--”

 

“It's okay, I'm running late too,” Steve assures him, before focusing back on Bucky. “It's the big one. Tony's place, I mean. The mansion-looking thing at the end of the cul de sac, number 2278. If you have trouble, just follow the really loud bass. He'll turn it on any minute, I think.”

 

“Thanks,” Bucky says, seeming slightly distracted.

 

He's giving him a look. Years ago Steve would have assumed there was flour on his face or something. Or he was getting judged for his outfit--which is, admittedly, at the moment the comfiest clothes he could find under a 'Queen of the Kitchen | Captain Cookie' apron Natasha ordered him. He has enough practice now, however, in translating the altogether foreign language of sexual social cues, to understand the guy is checking him out.

 

“Well, uh . . .” he starts uncomfortably.

 

Bucky flushes and finishes for him, “I should, yeah,” he throws a gesture over his shoulder, “nice to see ya again. I mean, see you later, at the . . .”

 

“Yeah, see you then,” Steve smiles, and Bucky quickly turns and nearly runs away.

 

Peter is looking back and forth at them as Bucky retreats, a bit mystified. Then he sniffs loudly. “Mr. Rogers, what's that smell?” 

 

It's only then that he consciously notices the slightly smoky, burnt-sugar scent wafting out of the house.

 

“ _Shit!_ ”

 

* * *

 

(Bucky had been sweeter than most. Nice to look at. Attracted to Steve, even. Steve used to beat himself up so badly, thinking that should have been all it took. Knowing other people get intimate on less grounds. Believing he was damaged.)

 

* * *

 

Steve shows up with three batches of semi-decent cookies, Peter juggling four plates and Steve carrying the rest. He foregoes the front door, as the party seems to already be out back. Sure enough, the gate of the backyard fence is swung open wide, which Yondu, Volstagg and Valkyrie are leaning against, all already glorious drunk. Yondu gives Steve a salute, while the other two just stare at the plates in his hands like a hunter eyes its prey.

 

The pool, the largest and most prominent feature of Tony’s huge backyard as they enter, is lit up in alternate flashes of red and blue. A blur of movement down the spiral water slide Steve identifies as Pietro when he waves and calls, “Hey Steve!” before hitting the water and splashing his sister. Peter’s eyes are wide and excited next to him, probably wanting to join his peers, so Steve quickly leads them to the nearest table of food and lets the kid run off. T’challa and Nakia approach from the other end of the table then, holding a crock pot and an impressive platter of fruit.

 

“Happy Birthday,” T’Challa says to Steve before Nakia can stop him.

 

“Tss! Steve doesn’t want--” she hisses.

 

“It’s okay. Thanks,” Steve interrupts, though he can’t help the way his smile twists.

 

“Sorry,” T’Challa mumbles, and Nakia quickly herds him away.

 

Steve sighs and goes looking for Natasha, who he finds laid out on a pool chair farthest from the water. She's wearing a scant bikini and shades, but the umbrella above completely shades her creamy white skin from the sun. “What’s the recipe today?” she says as he approaches, somehow knowing who’s there without opening her eyes. He still has no idea how she does that.

 

“Red white and blue cheesecake swirl,” he admits begrudgingly, sitting down with a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m here.”

 

“You’re here for my sake, not your own.” She peeks an eye open at him, smirking at what she sees. “Though you look pretty nice. Dressing to impress?”

 

Steve flushes. He . . . maybe is? Considering Bucky saw him wearing an apron that said ‘Queen of the Kitchen’ over grungy sweats and a T-shirt earlier, Steve doesn’t feel like enforcing the persona. Even if it’s more accurate than the nice shirt and khaki pants he’s currently sporting.

 

“Oh god, there he is, hide me,” Natasha suddenly shrinks, curling up with her back facing Steve. He subtly looks around, and spots Bruce just entering through the gate with two bags of chips in one hand. The guy’s nervously looking around as he walks in and adds his offering to the table, but he doesn’t seem to be looking for Natasha necessarily. More like looking _out_ for her, too.

 

“He’s going over to the croquet game,” he reports as Bruce walks away, and Natasha peeks a look over her shoulder. Just then Bruce starts talking to Thor on the other side of the lawn, who gleefully hands him a green mallet.

 

Satisfied her recent tryst is gone, Natasha sighs and sprawls on her back again. “Sometimes I wish I was like you,” she grumbles, to which Steve scoffs.

 

“No you don’t,” he says, while her eyes start trailing over Sam Wilson’s ass as he walks by for the water slide.

 

“No I don’t,” she agrees, mouth twisting in a catty smile before she jumps up and heads the same way.

 

Steve watches, half-amused and half-annoyed. The whole point of him being here is to be Natasha’s ‘human shield’ to avoid Bruce, at her insistence that only _Steve’s_ shoulder width would cut it. He agreed mostly because he’s missed spending time with her lately, even if his usual birthday/Fourth of July consists of eating raw cookie dough and playing some tragic period film to cry over. This holiday was supposed to be “Far From the Madding Crowd,” which he was assured by Youtube comments would be a tearjerker. But now he doesn’t get time with Natasha _or_ time with his tissue box. Life is hard.

 

Steve starts contemplating leaving just when a familiar voice behind him says, “Not planning on a swim?”

 

It’s Bucky, Steve realizes as he turns around. The guy has his hair up in a small bun now, though pieces of it are already flying free. He’s shirtless and laying out a towel on the pool chair next to Steve.

 

“Oh hey! No, yeah, I’m probably going to duck out soon,” he admits with a shrug, and Bucky gives him a surprisingly devastated look.

 

“Aw! Too bad, you’re the only person I kind of know here.” Bucky gestures to the huge amount of people around them with a self-deprecating laugh. Then he sits down and rubs some sunscreen on himself--which is slightly weird considering how tan he is--and offers some to Steve.

 

Steve accepts a small dollop for his nose because, well, he’s Irish.

 

“Yeah, even I don’t know everyone, and I’ve been here since . . .” Steve doesn’t finish that train of thought, continuing, “But I can introduce you to some people? Before I go?”

 

“That’d be great!” Bucky immediately brightens, showing off his white teeth.

 

(Steve can appreciate a nice smile and white teeth.)

 

“I guess it depends on the type you want to be introduced to,” Steve continues, looking around them. “There’s the more sporty ones, like Nebula and Sam Wilson. Valkyrie’s always a good drinking buddy. Carol Danvers and her partner hold a poker tournament every few months, I think a new one is about to start. Natasha, going down the slide right now, she’s a good one to turn to if you need . . . well, anything, really. Most everyone on Wakanda street is friendly.”

 

Bucky is giving him another look, though this one Steve honestly doesn’t know how to interpret. “Wow. You _sound_ like you know everybody at least,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Anyone I should avoid?”

 

“Most weren't invited, but the general list? Thanos, Brock Rumlow, Justin Hammer, Ronan, Tony Stark if he’s had too much to drink, Loki Odinson, Bruce Banner if he’s in a bad mood, Alexander Pierce _always_ ,” Steve lists off while Bucky starts laughing his head off, and then he starts laughing too.

 

“I think you need to draw me a map,” Bucky says between chuckles.

 

“I’ll have to,” Steve nods, still smiling. “It’s a great place to be, though, really. Your spot has one of the views, right?”

 

Bucky’s eyes brighten. “Yeah, it’s gorgeous. Apparently a quarter of the rent, just for that, but damn did you see the sunset last night? I’m surprised the street hasn’t been sold out, gotten bull-dozed for more mansions like this one.”

 

The big town of Mar Vell, less than an hour from a large major city, has little to say for itself as far as notoriety--but Bucky is right in that the rolling, forested hills provide an amazing view. The neighborhood here used to be considered luxury homes, for those who worked in the city but wanted the splendor of the country. But that was back in the 70’s--and, surprisingly, no one as of yet has buckled under the pressure of construction companies offering big bucks for the land. Tony Stark, though he did bulldoze the original home and build this ostentatious castle in its place, inherited the land directly from his parents.

 

Like Steve had from his mom, four years ago. And though he himself meant to sell out, thinking the house would be too painful to return to, he hasn’t left since.

 

“Is that your plan?” he asks Bucky, raising an eyebrow.

 

Bucky shrugs. “Not really. Just wanted a nice place to relax after work--the city’s gotten too tiring for me. Don't want to stay here forever, of course. I’d want to renovate it a lot, scrub out the grandpa smell, and then sell it for profit sometime down the road. Places like this just increase in value over time, you know?”

 

“Mm,” Steve nods. “Where are you working? You were at that Tech company--”

 

“I can’t believe you remember that!” Bucky says, looking at him like he’s crazy. “I said that, what, once? 6 years ago?” Steve blushes, embarrassed as he nods. Bucky's shocked face then breaks into a grin. “Well, yeah. I’m actually with the same company--they promoted me to Administrator over the software development division about a year ago. S’what helped me afford moving here. What about you?”

 

Steve doesn’t know what part of the explanation Bucky wants reciprocated. How he got the house? How he affords it? What his current employment status is? Most are entrenched in territory he doesn't want to go into detail about with anyone, much less an almost-stranger.

 

He’s explained his weird occupation enough, however, to just put bluntly, “I make cookie recipes and put the videos up on Youtube.”

 

Bucky blinks--then, to Steve’s surprise, he grins wider. “Oh no! You’re one of those people to blame for me binging Youtube 6 hours straight!”

 

Steve laughs, still surprised, and acquiesces, “Yeah, that’s me.”

 

“Dude, maybe I’ve seen your videos and didn’t realize!”

 

“Maybe,” Steve allows.

 

Bucky reclines back against the chair and asks, “What recipe are you most proud of making so far?”

 

And it goes like that. Steve despite himself talks for at least another twenty minutes about his many, _many_ vanilla cake mix recipes, his favorite--the peanut butter sandwich cookie--and the shortbread recipe he had to tweek seventeen times to perfect.

 

Bucky listens with apt attention, asking questions that only propel Steve on and providing witty comments at optimal moments. Steve finds his cheeks hurt a bit from smiling by the time Natasha walks over, Sam at her hip with his arm draped around her shoulders.

 

“Ah, I see you’ve met Captain Cookie,” Sam says to Bucky with a smirk.

 

Steve watches as a light suddenly appears in Bucky’s eyes and he whips his gaze back to Steve. “Captain. Cookie. No way. _You’re_ Captain Cookie?” he sputters, looking at Steve’s hands and forearms for confirmation.

 

They _are_ the only parts of Steve besides his apron that Steve allows to be seen on camera.

 

Natasha looks at Bucky in pity. “You a relative of Stark’s?”

 

“Just moved in at 2244, actually,” Bucky explains, suddenly looking a bit sheepish. “Tony’s my boss--well, my boss’s boss. He actually told me there was a house for sale here. But seriously! I should have recognized your voice overs, and you were wearing that apron, I just didn't connect . . .”

 

“And I know Bucky from a few years ago,” Steve adds, to which Natasha raises an eyebrow.

 

“But he didn’t know you were Captain Cookie?”

 

Bucky adds, “We _met_ a few years ago. Didn’t really get to know each other.”

 

Which is very true. However, considering in that short amount of time Bucky witnessed Steve naked, vulnerable, and eventually snot-nosed bawling, he’s probably seen more than most.

 

“Wait, were you already Captain Cookie then?” Bucky asks with wide eyes, as if this will change his entire perception of their time together. It’s a cute expression.

 

“Not really, just had a blog at that point,” Steve assures him.

 

“Speaking of, I’m excited to try your newest creation, Steve, Natasha mentioned cheesecake--”

 

“THE FUCK YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, DRAX!”

 

This comes from Peter Quill across the lawn, who looks a little drunk but in a righteous fury as he points from the croquet field to the man in question. The whole party seems to turn and look, catching Drax emptying his third plate of Steve’s cookies with his mouth bulging like a chipmunk. Drax's eyes bug wide, swallowing thickly. He seems to realize the danger he’s in, and--after stuffing another cookie in his mouth--makes a run for it. Peter Quill runs after him, still cursing.

 

In fact, there's suddenly lots of shouts and curses voiced as everyone realizes that, thanks to the heavily-tattooed bodybuilder, not everyone will get a Captain Cookie cookie. One of the greater tragedies that could befall, at a Mar Vell holiday party. Natasha immediately stands at alert and puts herself between the mob and the food tables.

 

“Alright everyone, let’s not get crazy about this,” she says, “we can make a list of everyone who doesn’t get one--”

 

“It's okay, I’ll just make more now,” he says loudly, cutting her off. The frenzied tension in the air immediately dissolves, and Thor puts his shirt back on. Some people grumble, but most shoot Steve a grateful, sometimes adoring smile in thanks.

 

“Sorry, I’d better head home and get on that,” he laughs to Bucky.

 

The guy looks a little bit traumatized from the scene, but he quickly recovers at Steve's words and stops him from leaving with a hand on his forearm. Steve looks at it in blank surprise, no time for any other emotion before Bucky pales and immediately retracts it. “Sorry, uh. Sorry. But hey--if you need help? I’m terrible alone at baking, but I can follow directions under supervision pretty well.”

 

Steve considers. He’s not, to be honest, very happy with how the cookies turned out, or how this party’s turning out, save for having fun talking to Bucky. Talking to Bucky without said party? Might be even better.

 

“Sure. C’mon,” he nods with a smile, to which Bucky hesitantly reciprocates.

 

On the way back Steve has an annoying worry--that this is a ruse for Bucky and Steve to be alone in his house, and Bucky will think from their enjoyable conversation Steve is wanting to do something besides baking--but it’s altogether ridiculous, especially as Bucky doesn’t so much as brush arms with him when they’re in Steve’s kitchen. Steve wouldn't have minded that. It's not like he's touch-averse, or anything. Still, Bucky hangs back as Steve starts measuring out ingredients from the stuff he hadn’t even had time to put away before leaving. Good thing, in this case. Sometimes laziness wins.

 

“So, have you made a video for these ones yet?” Bucky asks as they both twist the red, white and blue dough together ten minutes in.

 

Steve shakes his head with a laugh. “No way. I barely thought up the recipe this morning. I don’t usually post stuff unless I’ve had a year or more’s worth of experience perfecting the measurements. And the technique. And test them out on my neighbors.”

 

Bucky gives him a look. “So you’re saying those Pride cookies last week, with the heart and peace shape and the crystal sugar, you thought up more than a year ago?”

 

“Last year’s pride month, yeah,” Steve nods. “Which is a good reminder, I still need to start thinking about next year’s. I’ve just made so many of them now, you know?”

 

“The pride flag, pansexual flag, the rainbow lips,” Bucky agrees, surprising Steve by his knowledge. “Those were my favorite, by the way.”

 

“The rainbow lips?” Steve laughs, and Bucky answers by puckering up his lips and making kissy noises, which gets them both laughing.

 

While the first batch is baking Bucky pleads until Steve relents and turns the oven light on. He watches Bucky watch the cookies slowly rise with rapt attention, amused to have someone so excited about the process helping him. Not even Peter gets that excited, anymore.

 

“They ready?” Bucky asks in excitement when the timer goes off, and Steve checks before declaring, “Two more minutes.”

 

Bucky waits in near agony as the time stretches on, and Steve finally declares them ready. “The first batch always takes longest,” he explains as he puts on his ‘Relax, I’ve GOAT this’ oven mitts on and pulls the sheet out. “The oven’s still warming up, usually . . .”

 

He stops, staring at six of the twelve cookies. The six that Bucky twisted, unwittingly to perfection. “How did you--?” he asks, nearly dumbstruck.

 

Bucky frowns and peers over them too. “Did I do something wrong?”

 

“Show me what you did,” Steve demands.

 

Three batches later he’s got Bucky’s twisting technique down, and the cheesecake cookies start coming out in a near-perfect, patriotic swirl.

 

“That was fun!” Bucky says, clapping his flowery hands. The resulting puffy cloud makes Steve sneeze.

 

“Yeah, great job, you’re not bad,” he says with a choked laugh, to which Bucky sticks a finger near his face.

 

“Ah ah ah, you mean I’m _great_ ,” he says, wagging his finger. Steve swipes it away, and somehow a flour fight ensues.

 

(Luckily Steve has a lot of flour.)

 

“We’re not really presentable for the party anymore,” Bucky notes as they plate the last of the still-cooling cookies a little later. Steve has to tear his eyes away from the beautiful creations he’s ogling, and examines their matching, flour-encrusted outfits.

 

“Mmm might be on to something there,” Steve sighs. “I think I’ll just turn in after this anyway. It’s been enough excitement, for a Fourth of July. But an unusually good one, I'd say.”

 

Bucky frowns, cocking his head. “What do you usually do?”

 

“Honestly? Just put on a movie and maybe watch the lights from my porch,” Steve admits, though he doesn’t mention the genre of the movie or the raw cookie dough usually involved. What Bucky doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

 

“I usually spend time with my family,” Bucky smiles, “but they all decided to go to California for the past two weeks, and I couldn’t justify the time off work.”

 

He looks okay with it, for the most part, but Steve knows if he had the chance to be with his mom today, he’d give up anything. 

 

“Well, I’m sorry it’s been so weird,” Steve says with a smirk. “Running into the guy who cried in bed with you that one time, and end up baking cookies together.”

 

“I was wondering if we were going to bring that up,” Bucky says, voice careful as he wipes his floury hands on his floury pants.

 

“You thought I forgot?”

 

“Thought you might want us to pretend, at least.”

 

“We don’t have to--”

 

Bucky stops him with an impatient shake of his head, meeting Steve’s eyes squarely now. “No, I mean I’m glad you said something. We’re neighbors now, we’ll see each other around and I don’t want--anything, _weird_  between us, Steve. In fact, I’d like to be friends.”

 

Steve considers this. Bucky’s been extraordinarily friendly, and kind, and helpful in the past six hours. He was the same when Steve tried to force himself to just 'do the deed' six years ago, to ‘get it over with,’ and Bucky could tell he wasn’t into it. Steve's never forgotten that, or not been grateful for it. Plus, Natasha’s been extra stressed lately with work, and therefore hornier than he can usually tolerate being around. He could use some company, especially the kind not involving rants about which neighbors one would like to climb like a tree. Just a friend, to watch movies and taste-test his creations, and maybe even bake cookies with.

 

“Yeah, I’d like that too, Buck,” he says, decided. Bucky flashes him a bright smile in answer.

 

(He really does have nice teeth.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny Urban dictionary example of demisexuality that I feel REALLY fits this fic, lol:
> 
> Sexual partner: Hey, I think you are sexy. *aroused*  
> Demisexual partner: I'd have to reach a higher level of emotional intimacy before I could feel the same way. =\  
> Sexual partner: Oh, I see. Well, we can do something enjoyable together. =/  
> Demisexual partner: =D We can bake a cake for now!  
> Sexual partner: Sure! That's always fun, although we seem to be doing that a lot. =D  
> Demisexual partner: *squeee! bonding time!*
> 
> Let me know if there's any funny kitchen items you'd like to show up next chapter :) And in general your thoughts! Till then, friends!


	2. I Need to Make a Confection

The couple on Steve’s laptop moan louder as the guy slowly enters the girl, the drag of it slow and sensual. The camera moves to a new angle, just focusing on their faces for a second, and both look equally overcome and lost in each other’s eyes. Like this very moment had been led up to their entire lives, a bond that’s now become unbreakable. Because no one else will understand this moment, no matter what happens, or if they end up going their separate ways. No one experienced this, except the two of them--

 

\--and Steve, of course, jerking off as he watches the newest video on his favorite feminist porn site. That never really destroys the fantasy, though, only fuels Steve while the guy starts thrusting, slow then faster, making the girl’s breasts bounce. He leans down and worships them, sucking the tight nipple into his mouth, and eventually her back arches as she cries out in ecstasy--

 

Fuck. Steve wrings the orgasm out, a little surprised at its suddenness. The girl continues moaning in his headphones, and he joins her quietly, prolonging the pleasure as long as he can. Still, it’s over pretty quick. New uploads tend to do that to him.

 

Plus it's been a while. He hasn't had much time or energy to indulge. When Steve isn't experimenting recipes, he's filming and editing videos, and when he hasn't been planning out his social media posts, he's weirdly ended up hanging with Bucky--a lot.

 

Like, a lot a lot. Steve's not sure how many days they _haven't_ hung out in the past two weeks, but it's definitely been no more than two or three. Even when Steve is up to his elbows in cookie dough and self-imposed expectations, Bucky stops in and ends up being helpful--whether by adjusting the camera angle for Steve, or just making him feel better.

 

“I can't believe I'm standing in Captain Cookie's Kitchen,” he murmured on one occasion, and Steve for once remembered all those 00s of views on his videos might actually care.

 

But then Bucky had asked about the picture of Steve's mom on his mantle last night, and Steve had kind of frozen up and made Bucky leave without any kind of explanation.

 

Whoops.

 

So he's not expecting to hang with Bucky today. And Steve is more than caught up on Captain Cookies stuff, so . . . he glances down at the time on the screen, and decides he’s up for another.

 

It’s hard, sometimes, figuring out what he’s in the mood for. Girl on girl? Sometimes. Guy on guy? Most days. BDSM, if he’s got the energy. And hetero couples are always a classic. Steve wipes himself off with a few tissues and browses through his saved collection, never hovering long on a video--that is, until he finds the one. _The_ one, that always gets him, almost every time.

 

It’s a little BDSM-ey, to be honest. Though Steve doesn’t think he’d ever get to the point of trusting even a devoted partner to do most of those things with, he sure as hell likes watching some of them. This one is not too crazy: just a guy, blind-folded and handcuffed to a bed, while his boyfriend lavishes his body. The boyfriend starts with his mouth, just kissing and kissing and tease-humping until the guy is arching up in need. Then the boyfriend starts moving lower to his neck, sucking hard enough probably to leave hickies in several places.

 

When he moves on to the nipples, is when Steve starts really getting with the program again. Because the guy is so responsive, so affected as his boyfriend sucks, nips, and twists them. Apparently Steve just has something for nipple play, because he’s rock hard and oozing precome by the time the boyfriend starts lightly playing with the guy’s cock and balls.

 

It’s a long video, but he doesn’t come where he usually does--when the boyfriend is sucking him off and has to pin the guy’s hips down so he doesn’t choke. Probably because Steve has already shot his rocks off once, though by the time the video ends he’s close enough to not bother playing another one.

 

He leans back, closes his eyes, and imagines the same scenario. Except maybe he’s got two fingers up the guy’s ass, curling them and finding that spot, drawing out those needy whines--

 

His phone starts ringing.

 

Steve jacks his cock harder, his dumb hindbrain reasoning if he just comes quick enough, he can check who it is. But the magic is already gone as the phone keeps ringing and he keeps not coming, until quickly it just hurts.

 

“Fuck,” Steve swears again and grabs the phone with his least disgusting hand, answering on the last ring. “What?” he barks, not bothering to check the caller ID.

 

“...sorry. Is this a--? Yeah, this is probably a bad time,” Bucky says on the other end of the line, sounding supremely uncomfortable.

 

“Oh. No, hi!” Steve says. He looks down and pats his slightly wilting cock, blowing out a breath. “It’s fine. I'm sorry about last night--”

 

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry--”

 

“My mom died four years ago.”

 

“Oh.” Bucky's quiet on the line for a second, before he says, “Wow, I can't imagine. That's fucking terrible.”

 

There's nothing about being sorry for his loss or some bullshit, and Steve finds himself a lot less defensive than usual as he says, “Don't like talking about it usually. But yeah, it does suck.” There's a quiet pause on both ends before Steve adds, “Is that why you were calling . . . ?”

 

“Oh! No. Just wanted to see what you were up to,” Bucky says with a deprecating laugh. “It’s a Saturday and I’m bored.”

 

Steve and Bucky, so far anyway, usually end up watching a movie or playing a board game, though last time before the picture incident Steve let Bucky back into the kitchen to be his taste-tester for a new recipe. He even let him wear the ‘Professional Taste Tester’ apron only Peter usually gets to put on.

 

(The sounds he made tasting the caramel chocolate fudge cookie nearly remind Steve of the blindfolded guy he was just watching.)

 

“Well besides nothing,” Steve starts, and smiles when he hears Bucky’s breathy laugh on the other end. “Seriously though, not much. I’ve been thinking banana split maybe, but I don’t know if I have the energy to figure it out today. I might just hit the gym.”

 

Bucky snorts. “You’re too tired to make cookies, but working out sounds fine?”

 

“It’s not the same,” Steve defends. “It’s my brain that’s tired, I couldn’t tell the difference between a teaspoon and tablespoon in this state. But my body’s just fine--better than fine, actually.” He can’t help but grin around the last words, feeling a bit noodly now that his cock’s softened.

 

“Okaaaay,” Bucky says in a strange tone, not that he could have any idea the state Steve’s in--shirtless with his boxers halfway down his thighs. “Well. What gym do you go to? Do you recommend it?”

 

“Come with me and check it out,” Steve offers.

 

He feels a thrill of excitement when Bucky quickly replies, “Yeah! Let’s do it!”

 

So Steve jumps into a quick shower, despite knowing he'll have to shower immediately after the gym. Two texts have come through by the time he gets out:

 

Stark: _Order of 200 snicker doodle for Pep's birthday? Please and thank you, Captain oh my captain._

 

Natasha: _I just had the *hottest* sex of my life last night and you know you want to hear about it_

 

He responds in the affirmative to Tony at his usual rate, and despite himself, does want to hear about Natasha's newest sexcapade. He calls her while he throws some workout clothes on and gets ready, saying when she picks up, “Give me the SparkNotes version, me and Bucky are going to the gym in fifteen.”

 

“Oh is that so?” Natasha's voice came out teasingly. “Well. So you know Sam Wilson?”

 

“Heard of him.”

 

“Ha ha, anyway, after the party a few weeks ago he started texting me, and last night our schedules finally aligned to go for dinner, and . . .”

 

Steve smirks as he pulls on his shorts. “Dot dot dot?”

 

“Only you, Steve, would respond with a Mamma Mia reference.”

 

“Sorry! Okay, um . . . yours or his?”

 

“His of course.”

 

“Of course? There a rule behind that?”

 

Natasha laughs, saying, “Well I'm not sure if this translates to non-cis couples, but in the guy-girl scenario, the guy needs to show you his territory. Prove he's a provider or some heteronormative shit.”

 

“Enlightening,” Steve laughs, putting on fresh socks.

 

“I don't know, okay? But it was hella nice. And he was like, so into it, the entire time. Into _me_.”

 

“You are a catch, Nat,” Steve agrees. “He's probably counting his lucky stars still, right now.”

 

“God, so am I. Though I'm home now and I already want to go straight back for another round. Which would be round 4 for him, maybe six or seven for me--”

 

“Woah, okay, SparkNotes remember?” Steve protests, and Natasha laughs at him.

 

“Just promise me something? When the fateful day comes?”

 

“ _If_ it comes.”

 

“Okay fine,” Natasha says, sounding impatient. “If the day ever comes--or more accurately for you, the _person_ comes--don't be a chickenshit. You think sex sounds dumb now, but it's fuckin’ scary when you actually like the person.”

 

“I promise,” Steve vows as he slips on his shoes, though he can't hide the amusement in his voice.

 

“Completely unrelated, but tell me about this Bucky guy. How did you guys meet?”

 

Steve laughs, but lets that comment slip. “Originally? A college friend introduced us, right before graduation. I was trying to get rid of the v-card by then, and my friend said Bucky was the man for the job.”

 

Natasha snorts. “Let me guess, you didn't make it up the stairs?”

 

“Excuse you,” Steve laughs, finishing tying his laces and grabbing the phone off the dresser. “I made it into the _bed_. Naked.”

 

“And you looked into his dreamy eyes and declared, 'Bucky, I have no desire to fuck you.’”

 

“He actually stopped us,” Steve said, smile fading. “I was a little hard, even, but something still tipped him off and he asked what was wrong.”

 

“Oh.” Natasha is quiet for a moment, before she says, “Then I approve.”

 

“We're not--”

 

“Of whatever you are,” she corrects.

 

“We're having a good time,” Steve sighs and admits. “I'll call you soon okay?”

 

A few minutes later he picks Bucky up on his Harley and a Tupperware full of the caramel chocolate fudge cookies. The guy looks up and down at the sight dubiously. “You know how to drive this thing, Captain Cookie?” he shouts over the engine. Steve gives him an unimpressed look in answer, and hands over his extra helmet.

 

The Asgard Fitness Center is run by the Odinson family, but Steve goes for more than just loyalty to his neighbors. It’s a fine facility, and at a reasonable price. And, well . . .

 

Bucky blinks as they walk in, taking in the huge rainbow walkway Thor put in place. It was right after he and Steve had a conversation a year ago, about sexuality, and Steve explained to him what panromantic meant. The next week he’d walked in to see this, and Thor’s explanation: “Our best customer has pride! We must as well!”

 

Steve has no idea what Thor’s father had to say about that, but it’s never been painted over.

 

“Well shit,” Bucky says in wonder.

 

Steve hands the tupperware off to Darcy the receptionist, and there's almost a protocol now that she gets first pick before leaving them out for everyone else.

 

Like hounds on a hunt, the moment the lid is cracked they come in droves, Drax in the lead. And in so doing Steve clears out the line on his favorite equipment.

 

Bucky seems to catch onto this as they pass the hoard of people fighting for cookies, muttering, “Evil genius.” It cracks a shimmer on Steve's face that's at the least not benevolent.

 

After an hour moving around the gym doing quite a few different sets together, they head over to his favorite spot. Steve quickly loses himself in his reps on the flat bench press for a while, letting Bucky spot him. The burn across his upper body is familiar and welcome, a nice numbing agent on Steve’s brain. All he knows for a while is effort, and strain, and sweat before he finally hits 100.

 

Thinking Bucky’s been counting with him, Steve lifts the bar as high as he can, expecting the other guy to provide an assist. But Bucky is staring kind of dazedly down at him. It’s not until Steve grits out, “Bucky,” between his teeth that the latter blinks out of it and helps him put the bar back on the rack.

 

“Sorry, started daydreaming I guess,” Bucky says sheepishly, running a hand through his hair nervously and effectively pulling more of it out of his ponytail.

 

Steve raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Not exactly the job of a spotter, Buck-o,” he teases, and stands up to reach out and smooth a particularly rebellious strand sticking from Bucky’s head. Bucky gives him a strange look when he retracts the hand, but it disappears the next second.

 

“Well let me make it up to you. Get back on there, let’s do a drop set,” Bucky says with a challenging look in his eye.

 

Steve withstands the urge to gulp, never one to back down from a challenge. “Fine by me,” he says with all the nonchalance he doesn't feel.

 

(Maybe he wants to impress Bucky just a little.)

 

He starts with 220 and goes strong for longer than he thought, considering he was just benching it already for 100 reps. But by the time Steve gets a measly break while Bucky switches out the weights to 200, there's a new crowd.

 

Thor, Valkyrie and Drax are watching with grins, while the rest like Maria Hill, Sam Wilson and Gamora are shouting in half-excitement and half-anguish as Steve shakes through each rep. A chant starts, when Steve’s down to just 50, though he’s currently too focused on fending off the imminent collapse of his muscles to have an idea what they're saying. It catches on quick, though, when Bucky eventually switches off the rest of the weights and he’s only repping with the bar.

 

It still feels like his arms are about to shake off as the crowd chants, “Cap-TAIN, Cap-TAIN, Cap-TAIN.”

 

“Gotta stop,” he slurs through his clenched teeth a minute later, when every rep starts feeling like knives are tearing through his muscles.

 

Bucky immediately grabs hold of the bar, and Steve barely has the strength to make sure he’s got a good grip on it before his whole body goes limp.

 

The crowd erupts into cheers.

 

“You did great,” he hears Bucky saying, and two hands start kneading lightly at the meat of his shoulders. Steve groans, making the hands hesitate, but only a moment before they continue.

 

“We are . . . never . . . doing that again,” he mumbles as the crowd finally dissipates--though not before Thor insists on giving him a gift card to Smoothie King for being “free cookies and publicity for this establishment.”

 

“You okay?” Bucky says, getting up in Steve’s face. His eyes are extraordinarily blue, Steve notes dazedly. He blinks, and slowly pulls himself up to a sitting position. Bucky watches in sympathy as Steve’s head spins. “I’d go next, if it made you feel better, but honestly I don’t trust you as a spotter right now, pal.”

 

Steve laughs, and aims a weak punch that Bucky easily dodges.

 

After they shower he ends up having to let Bucky drive them home, as his whole upper body feels like he just lifted up a semi for an hour. Bucky is, impressively, pretty good on a bike, for being the owner of a Honda Civic.

 

“Alright, let’s get you settled,” Bucky says once they’re through Steve’s door and he deposits him on the couch. Steve watches blearily as Bucky lifts his feet up onto the foot rest for him, and disappears into the kitchen.

 

He comes back with iced water and, after making sure Steve is drinking it, goes into the master bedroom for something.

 

After a weird amount of time, Bucky comes back out with a blanket and a slightly disgruntled expression. “I knew you’d been jerking off,” he accuses, whilst throwing the blanket at Steve’s head.

 

He manages to catch it, though it hurts his already-sore muscles to make the sudden movement. “Huh?”

 

Not that he can deny it, of course. Then Steve's brain catches up to remember where Bucky just returned from and realizes he left the laptop on his bed, surrounded by tissues and rumpled sheets. An observant person could put two and two together.

 

Bucky flushes, blows out a breath. “Nothing. Just. I know we’re not even real friends yet, Steve, but I’d appreciate if you were honest with me.”

 

“About when I jerk off?” Steve asks in sheer astonishment. He’s never heard of such terms in a friendship.

 

Bucky growls in frustration. “No no, _that_ you jerk off. Or no, not even, just that--look, maybe I remember this differently. But according to my version of history, you don’t want to do that sort of stuff. Period.”

 

Okay, Steve gets where this is coming from. An awkward way of bringing it up, certainly, but considering he hadn’t even begun to figure himself out when the whole almost-sleeping-with-Bucky thing happened, he shouldn’t be surprised the guy is confused.

 

“I like that kind of stuff,” he starts slowly, and Bucky’s eyebrows make a slow descent up his forehead, “but, not the same way. Or on the same-- _timetable_ , as most people. I said I thought I was completely sex-repulsed and asexual that night, I think, between the crying right?” Bucky nods mutely, looking a bit sheepish now. But Steve plows on, “I met a girl later though. Just friends. And after a year or so, I realized I _wanted_ to have sex with her.”

 

“Oh. Did you . . .?” Bucky starts, before his face goes red. “Sorry. That is none of my business.”

 

“I didn’t,” Steve answers anyway. “She just saw us as friends, she said it’d be like having sex with her brother. I ended up exploring porn . . . we cuddled a lot though.”

 

He knows what he’s saying by not saying anything else. That he’s never had sex, at the ripe age of 28. And that he’s perfectly okay with it.

 

(His hand seems to work just fine for him, thanks.)

 

“Oh. So . . . what’s your rule on cuddling?” Bucky says in a curious tone, uncrossing his arms. Completely throwing Steve off guard.

 

No questions about his virginity? About how much he doesn’t know he’s missing? About a guy or girl Bucky knows, that he could set him up with to get rid of that pesky v-card?

 

“Cuddling?” Steve repeats, trying to understand the question.

 

Bucky rounds the couch and sits, shrugging once he does. “I don’t know. Do you have a standard, at what point it’s okay to cuddle someone?”

 

“Uhhhh . . . I don’t know,” Steve blinks, at a loss. “When I feel like it? Peggy--the friend I mentioned--she’d wear these really fuzzy pajamas, and I just wanted to squish her. Sounds weird, I know,” he laughs, but Bucky shakes his head with a smile.

 

“Nah, that’s normal, my friend,” he says in a wiser-than-thou tone that makes Steve kick him. “Hey!” He jumps a little to avoid it, though Steve gets him pretty good still. “It is, though! I want to wrap people up and squish them all the time.”

 

“And then fuck them?” Steve adds with a smirk, and Bucky throws a decorative pillow at him.

 

“ _Sometimes!_ ” he squeaks as Steve starts beating him back with it, reaching blindly for another one. He does find one, the hamburger throw pillow Steve doesn't remember who gave him, and gets a good hit on the side of Steve’s head. Unbalanced, Steve ends up falling off the couch, though he luckily has enough of a handle on Bucky to bring him down with him.

 

“Sometimes, but they can be mutually exclusive!” he shouts at Steve as they attack each other, cackling when he manages to knock Steve’s pillow out of his hands.

 

Steve retaliates by flipping them over, pinning Bucky down and stealing his pillow. “Ha ha!” he yells in triumph, bashing Bucky’s face one last time with it.

 

Bucky spits out some lent from his mouth and glares up at him.

 

“I hope this isn’t your idea of cuddling,” he deadpans, and Steve nearly falls off him as he laughs.

 

They end up both on their backs on the floor, watching the ceiling fan spiral above them as they catch their breaths. “My arms are sooooore,” Steve groans after a few minutes of comfortable silence, and Bucky snorts in answer. “And it’s your fault,” he adds, hoping to get a rise out of him.

 

Bucky just looks over at him with an unimpressed expression. “If it wasn’t for me, your _excellent_ spotter, you’d still be trapped under the bar.”

 

“Thor would have saved me,” Steve argues, and Bucky laughs.

 

“That guy has the _hugest_ crush on you.”

 

“I think you mean on my cookies, Buck.”

 

“Yeah. On your ‘ _cookies,_ ’ that’s right.”

 

Steve laughs, indignant, but concedes the point. “Well, my excellent spotter, you’ll have to split the spoils with me. Smoothie King, tomorrow?”

 

Bucky hums in agreement, before going quiet for another minute. Then he rolls over so he’s on his stomach, a lot closer to where Steve’s sprawled. Steve is again temporarily dazzled by the blueness of Bucky’s eyes, staring at him full force this close.

 

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Bucky says, giving a sad half-smile. “I knew I didn’t have the whole story, but I’d just assumed--”

 

“Exactly what I’d told you, what I’d assumed back then,” Steve assures him. “I didn’t think I _was_ capable of sexual attraction, alone or with someone else, when I tried with you.”

 

Bucky sighs, looking down. “But then I got all bitchy about it, like you owe me an explanation for taking care of yourself. You don’t, obviously. It’s your life. You don’t owe anyone anything. You should be happy, truly, with whatever makes you happy.”

 

Something warm blossoms in Steve’s chest at Bucky’s words, at the fire in his eyes, at _him,_ and makes Steve smile. “Thanks, Buck.”

 

Bucky smiles back. “Thank _you_ , Steve. What a fuckin’ morning, huh?”

 

Steve huffs a laugh. “I’ll say. My arms have lost all function. You’re going to have to stay here, excellent spotter, and spot wiping my ass for the next few days.”

 

Bucky rolls over and laughs probably harder than Steve’s ever made him, thus far, which makes him laugh in triumph and from the simple joy of having Bucky around.

 

(He hasn’t had this much fun in ages.)

 

* * *

 

(The second worst thing about trying, for Steve, was that no one was willing to try with him. Not for that long, anyway. Eventually one would say ‘they were wasting each other’s time,’ or admit, ‘I feel like this relationship is too one-sided,’ or just ghost him and give up. But then the thought came, the _worst_ thing of all about this: what if they were right? What if he spent half his life in dead-end relationships, waiting for a feeling that might never come? Why would he put anyone through that, including himself? Wasn't it better to just be alone?)

 

* * *

 

“I could never date a girl,” Wanda announces as she, Pietro and Peter help Steve cut out the sugar cookies. Groot, on his phone in the corner, grunts in agreement. “I couldn’t get along with one. We’re all such catty bitches!”

 

“Yes you are,” Pietro says with a smirk, and ducks too quick for Wanda to smack his head.

 

“Hey, no touching heads, that’s how you get hair in the cookies,” Steve scolds, and Wanda harrumphs before giving up.

 

“But girls are way cooler! MJ always has great ideas for the Math club,” Peter offers, and Steve smiles at him encouragingly.

 

“Oooohhh what’s she look like?” Pietro waggles his eyebrows, not looking as he cuts out another cookie from the dough and nearly slams the cutter on Wanda’s finger in the process.

 

“Fucking watch it!” Wanda yells, snatching her hand back, and Steve sighs a sigh he knows probably makes him sound twenty years older than he is.

 

“If you guys can’t focus I’ll just finish this part by myself,” he says, and Peter’s eyes immediately widen to saucers.

 

“No no, Mr. Rogers, I’m focused! Like laser-focused, these trapezoid cookies have like, all of my attention.”

 

“I’m bored anyway,” Pietro shrugs, and goes to the sink to rinse his hands.

 

“Okay, but who is she? Does she know you like her? Are you gonna have her babies?” Wanda presses.

 

Steve whistles. “That escalated quickly.”

 

Peter looks red as a tomato as he replies, “We’ve been holding hands? I asked her if I could ask her to Homecoming this year.”

 

“Sounds pretty serious,” Steve says with a smile at him.

 

“But what should I do, Mr. Rogers? Like, what’s the next step, how can I keep her liking me?”

 

“You’re asking the wrong guy . . .” Steve starts with a chuckle, though for some reason his brain turns to Bucky.

 

It’s been almost two months, now. Steve wouldn’t call their relationship romantic, by any means, but there’s a lot of similarities to what Peter mentioned. Sometimes when they watch movies, they’ll hold hands or lay their heads on each other’s shoulders. And he regularly asks Bucky to go do things with him.

 

Does there need to be a next step?

 

(Would he want to take it?)

 

“Kiss her, duh,” Pietro says, and it’s only then Steve notes he’s hopped up and parked his ass on Steve’s countertop. He only has to give the kid a warning look before Pietro immediately slides down.

 

“Well, yeah, but . . .” And now Peter’s face is cherry red, leaving little room for doubt.

 

“You’re a VL??” Wanda gasps, like this is a Sixth Sense level kind of twist.

 

“A what?” Pietro starts, before a light bulb turns on. “Oh dude, you’ve never kissed anyone? You got to take care of that before school starts. It’s Sophomore year!”

 

“School starts in four days!” Peter splutters, but Wanda nods her head in agreement.

 

“No, people will be able to tell.”

 

“Other _guys_ will be able to tell, they’ll think she’s fair game.”

 

“You’ve got to seal the deal, Pete.”

 

“Yeah, lay one on her, before it’s too late.”

 

Peter looks like he’s watching a tennis match, and his team is losing.

 

“Okay okay, that’s enough,” Steve intercedes, trying to keep his voice from showing how annoyed he is by this turn to the conversation. They’re just kids--but ‘kids will be kids’ is not exactly his favorite turn-of-phrase. “Peter, like all of you, can decide for himself when he wants to kiss someone. That’s just common sense, guys.”

 

“What was your first kiss like, Mr. Rogers?”

 

This is coming from Peter. Steve hesitates on his answer.

 

“Weird, sudden, and kind of funny,” he settles on, remembering the mortified look on Falsworth's drunk face when he realized what he'd done.

 

Then a few random guys and girls, which Steve honestly doesn't like to look back on--he'd been desperate, depressed, and confused most of his junior year--and finally, Bucky.

 

When the kids leave with their frosted trapezoids, ready to bring to the first Mar Vell Math Club meeting of the school year, Steve wonders why he didn't remember that sooner: Bucky was the last person he kissed. Steve can't help but think now on his lips being very soft, skillfully moving against Steve's like it was a dance, not just foreplay. He'd been playful then, too, though Steve imagines if he ever were to kiss him now, it would be much better. More intimate, meaningful.

 

He feels a very sudden but powerful urge to see him.

 

 _Call me when you’re home from work_ , he texts, and not two seconds later his phone starts buzzing.

 

“Hey, was just about to call you,” Bucky says over the phone, sounding weirdly cheery, even for him. “I’m already home. You want to come over and have dinner?”

 

“Sounds good,” Steve says, immediately smiling at hearing the other guy's voice. “I just helped four fifteen year olds bake cookies and I’m about to pull my hair out.”

 

“Not over all the cookies, I hope,” Bucky quips, and Steve replies with a snort.

 

He’s itching out of his skin to go over right then, but Bucky tells him 6pm, so Steve waits for 6pm. He calls Natasha, but she’s over at Sam’s again and can’t talk--is that actually becoming a relationship?--and he doesn’t feel like talking to anyone else.

 

So Steve’s left stewing in his feelings, which are weird and muddled and completely unwarranted to be intruding just from a dumb teenage conversation.

 

But still, he can’t help wondering--what comes next?

 

Bucky hasn’t pushed anything. In fact, Steve was the one who first slid his hand into Bucky’s, when they finished ‘Testament of Youth,’ and Bucky was trying to sniff and man-cry his way out of his feelings. The second Steve squeezed his hand, though, the waterworks burst and Bucky was sobbing on his shoulder for a good minute.

 

The other small, fleeting touches are nice, but mostly because they don’t have any sort of weight or promise in them. Steve can just touch and be touched without having to constantly question: _is this a sexual cue he needs to discern, acknowledge, and choose whether to reciprocate? Does he finally have any sexual inclination to do so?_

 

He hasn't missed worrying about the answers.

 

But it comes down to this, Steve realizes, as he makes the short walk over to Bucky’s house just before 6pm, as Bucky quickly leads him in through the door with an affectionate hand on Steve’s back, as he walks in feeling completely comfortable, completely at ease in Bucky’s presence. Wanting to be in it more and more, with each passing day.

 

It comes down to this: he thinks, he _thinks_ , he wants to want to.

 

That’s at least a place to start?

 

Or it is, until Bucky nervously announces over ravioli, “So you know that guy we met at the gym a few weeks ago . . .” and Steve realizes, once again, he’s fallen into the trap of believing someone would want him. That he would ever be a person someone else found it worth waiting for.

 

He smiles widely, congratulates Bucky for finding someone, and excuses himself early in the guise of being tired. Instead, he goes home to mix up some cookie dough and cry over ‘Light Between Oceans.’

 

(He really cries over the fact he misses Bucky's head on his shoulder.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who kudosed and commented. As always, all feedback, comments, questions, and of course kudos are welcome! Until next week! x


	3. Don't Go Baking My Heart

The following week, Steve does what any sensible person does when their friend-- _just_ friend--gets a boyfriend: set up his recording equipment for the whole week and start a “Recipe A Day Giveaway,” featuring pie-inspired cookies, or 'cookie pies.' Apple, cherry, key lime, bumble berry, coconut creme, french silk, and last but certainly not least, lemon meringue.Three days in he’s already surpassed his projected goal for new subscribers and Instagram followers, and gotten nearly 10,000 more hits each day on his official blog.

 

So what if he's not sleeping?

 

“This has to STOP,” Natasha announces at 10 at night, on the bumble berry cookie day.

 

He's spent the last 11 hours shooting and perfecting the coconut creme footage he's posting tomorrow, and feels slightly unhinged as he waves at cookies on the counter and offers, “Want some cookies? Have some cookies. Here, just give them to whoever you think--”

 

“No _,_ Rogers,” she says, and reaches across the counter to slam his laptop shut. “You're done. You are _past_ done, when you don't answer anyone's texts or calls and hole up in your kitchen for days. Come here,” she orders.

 

Steve thoughtlessly obeys. For a second he thinks she's about to hug him, hands reaching around his waist, until she starts roughly untying his “Hot Stuff Coming Through” apron. Steve obediently pulls it off from his head, suddenly feeling how tired he is as his shoulders droop.

 

“Okay, what's up?” Natasha demands, and throws the apron on the counter to put hands on her hips.

 

“I'm doing a give away--”

 

“Anyone with an Instagram knows that, Rogers.”

 

Steve sighs, rounding back to sit on his bar stool. His head falls into his hands. “And it's going great,” he mumbles against them.

 

“Yeah, which is why I know something else is going on,” Natasha says. This time she does put her arms around him for a hug, and Steve slumps into her embrace. “Is it your mom?” Steve blinks, pulling back in surprise, because it _isn't_ his mom. For once, his heart is in pain for a completely different reason--a problem he hasn't worried about in years.

 

“I'm not broken,” he starts, because he's found it better to preface with that when talking about demisexuality with Natasha, or _she'll_ say it ten times. “I'm fine, happy, with the way things have been. But . . .”

 

“But?”

 

But . . . he doesn't know. And that's the worst part of it.

 

“Nothing,” Steve decides, suddenly weary at the idea of putting his feelings into words. Instead he offers, “Jane Eyre?”

 

Natasha gives him a Look--this one says they will be addressing things later, but she is a merciful being for now--and replies, “Only if it's the 1997 version.”

 

Steve puts away the perishables while Natasha puts the cookies in containers, then the two cozy into the couch. As the opening credits start Steve lets Natasha wrap her strong arms securely around him. He's usually the cuddler, not the cuddlee, but she always reverses those roles when she's worried about him. Just another reason of thousands he's so lucky to have her.

 

Steve plays with her loosely-curled hair instead of paying attention to the film and wonders not for the first time why he doesn't have anything but platonic feelings for her. Natasha is beautiful, and funny, and 110 percent there for him since they bonded over being the biggest losers of the annual Danvers poker tournament. The fact that she’s both a fan of his Captain Cookie persona and yet still treats him like an annoying sister would her brother means more than he can say. He loves being physically close to her like this, their bodies matched up like puzzle pieces . . . but he doesn't want anything else.

 

Some acquaintances in college complained about people being a ‘tease,’ Steve remembers, and he’s always tried to avoid amounting to one. Not that Natasha cares, of course, but wouldn't someone else take his physical affection for her that way?

 

“Your thoughts are way too loud, I can't hear Mr. Rochester,” Natasha grumbles against his chest.

 

So Steve stamps down his inner monologue and tries to enjoy the movie.

 

He wakes up to Natasha snoring and drooling on his chest, morning light peeking in from the front windows. A phone is buzzing faintly on the coffee table, and Steve blearily looks at the screen to see that Bucky and Natasha have been talking. The recent ones are about Steve:

 

_Is Steve pissed at me for some reason?_

 

Bucky Barnes: _Not responding to you either?_

 

Bucky Barnes: _I assumed it was a cookie thing, he's got that “Busy Baking” sign up on his door the past 3 days_

 

_I fucking hate that sign_

 

_You saw him last, how was he?_

 

Bucky Barnes: _Tired? Distracted? Something was on his mind. I'm concerned, to be honest_

 

_Alright, I'm going over for an intervention._

 

Bucky Barnes: _Good luck._

 

And most recently, the text from just now--

 

Bucky Barnes: _H_ _ow'd the intervention go?_

 

“What should I tell him?” Natasha asks, who by this point has stirred awake, scooted up Steve's chest, and seen what he's reading.

 

Steve shrugs, then jokes, “I needed a good cuddling.” But Natasha snatches the phone out of his hands and sits up, typing fast as Steve says, “Wait, you aren't actually sending that to him--”

 

“Sent!” Natasha declares cheerily, smiling back at his glare. “Now, before you're allowed to start your stress baking back up, let's talk this out.”

 

Steve can feel his glare morph into a pout, but to no avail. Natasha crosses her arms and sits on his stomach like she's happy to wait there forever. She probably is.

 

“Nothing, really,” Steve grouches, though he consigns himself to his fate. “Bucky and I just met one of T'Challa's cousins at the gym a few weeks ago, his name’s M'Baku,” and he ignores Natasha's raised eyebrow. “Then Bucky told me over the weekend they'd been texting, and met up for dinner, and . . . dot dot dot.”

 

Natasha blinks for a few seconds before her face twists into a strangled sort of shock. “Wait--you're _jealous_?” she asks, obviously trying to hold back her expression.

 

He should have known she'd see his predicament as a good thing. “Not like I want to go and challenge M'Baku for the title of ‘Biggest Top to Ever Top,’ no,” Steve defends, and tries to keep a straight face as Natasha bursts into giggles.

 

“Bu...Bucky said that? Is he--oh god,” she cackles, holding her middle as she belly-laughs and only getting a hold of herself when Steve's hips tilt her off the couch threateningly. “Fine, fine I'm sorry!”

 

“It's like you hanging with Sam all the time now,” Steve adds, though Natasha immediately gives him a scrutinizing look.

 

“Bucky isn't suddenly hanging out with M'Baku more than you. You're the one avoiding _him_.”

 

Steve opens his mouth, but has to shut it again--because, dammit, she's right. And isn't that even more confusing.

 

Natasha seems to relax then, her point made. Another giggle escapes as she adds, “ _My_ big takeaway from this conversation is that Bucky likes being a bottom. I hope that's yours too, Steve.”

 

She leaves soon after, leaving Steve with way too much to think about.

 

He posts his coconut creme video and wearily starts experimenting on the french silk idea, waiting for 11:30--Bucky's lunch break, usually--before even checking his phone.

 

He can be friends with Bucky while the guy is in a relationship. He handles Natasha just fine, and she’s right that Steve hasn’t even given Bucky a chance to ditch him or prove their friendship true. Looking back on it, Steve isn’t sure why he got so panicked and distraught and started a baking spree over it.

 

On the dot, 11:30 shows no new messages from his friend. Just four unanswered ones from days previous, two of which are just memes. For all he can tell by the two nonchalant texts inviting him to hang out, Bucky hardly noticed the time apart. Except in Bucky's conversation with Natasha his texts seemed worried, concerned, invested. As if Steve's well being means a lot to him.

 

Whatever they aren't, Steve has to say they _are_ friends. Close ones, almost. So he sends:

 

_Sorry I've been AWOL. Have any time for milk and cookies after work?_

 

Steve is busy playing around with chocolate mousse when his phone chimes with the answer:

 

Bucky: _Always ;))))_

 

Bucky: _Those are all the chins I'll have by the time I leave your place, btw_

 

Steve barks a laugh and then freezes, slightly startled by the sound. And the giddiness spiking his bloodstream, after just a text. He realizes: he can handle Bucky being in a romantic relationship with someone else, but _maybe he doesn’t want to._

 

“I know it’s been 4 days,” Bucky says not long after 5, standing at Steve's door still in his professional attire. It looks like he’s come straight from work. “But I swear I’m ten pounds lighter without your baking.”

 

Steve lets him in whilst rolling his eyes, though his face is already cracking into a smile.

 

“How was work?”

 

Bucky takes off his shoes and regards him. “Typical. How goes the bake-a-thon?”

 

“Draining,” Steve admits, and leads Bucky to the kitchen. Bucky's eyes bug wide the second they round the corner to it, and Steve has to mentally re-see the space he's been living in for 96 hours to understand why.

 

It's . . .well, ‘a mess’ would be a kind term.

 

“Uhhh, let's go to the couch?” Steve offers.

 

Bucky makes a protesting noise around his choked laugh. “No, no why would we do that?” he guffaws, and Steve shoves his arm in retaliation toward the living room.

 

Steve puts three of the french silk cookie pie creations on a plate and pours a glass of milk, all the while listening as Bucky goes over to sit on the couch. He seems to be making himself comfortable with no trouble, humming and groaning in pleasure after cracking what Steve assumes is the entirety of his back.

 

“Sure you want dessert before dinner?” Steve calls.

 

“Do you know me at all?” Bucky calls back, then lets out a sigh as the couch gently creaks. Steve feels a weird amount of happiness that the other guy is comfortable here, came straight from work, immediately accepted Steve’s invitation to come over. Like he genuinely enjoys everything about Steve, and just wants to be in his company. “Fall in the oven, Goldilocks?” Bucky calls after another minute, and Steve realizes he's still standing at the counter, listening to the other guy breathing a room away. Weird.

 

“That would be the Hansel and Gretel’s witch,” he corrects as he enters the living room, stopping just for a moment to take in the sight of Bucky completely sprawled across the couch. His shirt is pulled out of his pants, top button undone and hair loose, splayed against the couch cushion.

 

He's . . . pretty. Steve is not blind to the fact. He can see what other people see most of the time, even if he can't attach the same feelings to it. With Bucky lately, though, it's muddled. Like part of him wants to get close, while the rest of him wants to keep even further away.

 

Bucky groans as he sits up, saying, “Yeah that sounds more like you anyway. House made of gingerbread and sugary things. My head too full of 1s and 0s to notice when you cook me into a dumpling.”

 

“Too full for cookies?” Steve feigns stepping back. He's unable to stop his smirk when Bucky momentarily takes the threat seriously. But he quickly scowls with annoyance.

 

“Punk,” he says, clearly trying to keep back a smirk of his own.

 

Steve almost wishes he had taken away the cookies, though, when he sits down and Bucky starts making those orgasmic sounds as he starts on the first. Whatever Steve feels about the noises, positive or indifferent, they're definitely distracting. And remind him again of what Bucky was up to, over the weekend.

 

“How's M'Baku?” he asks after a bit, trying to sound as casual as possible. He succeeds, though more likely because Bucky is too busy on his third cookie to pay attention.

 

He shrugs, not even pausing between bites to say, “Don’ know.”

 

“Oh?” Steve's body stiffens, relaxes, then stiffens all over again before he can follow up, “So you guys haven't talked since?”

 

Bucky gives him a weird look as he polishes off his last bite. “Well, he left the next day back to Jabari, so . . . sadly, no. Not really.”

 

“Oh.” Apparently Steve can't find another appropriate response.

 

There's a loaded, uncomfortable moment, where Bucky scrutinizes Steve's face--who has no idea what expression's on it currently--before his eyes shift down. Then Steve's do, only to find his hand absently rubbing Bucky's knee.

 

Steve pulls it back like he's been electrocuted.

 

“Oh, um, forgot--I need to--” he gestures vaguely behind him, stumbling to his feet.

 

Bucky grabs his hand before he can get far.

 

“It’s okay, Steve,” he says, in a slow, serious tone Steve doesn’t like. Feels his stomach swoop in reaction. He pulls out of Bucky’s grip and crosses his arms tightly, blowing out a breath through his nose.

 

“ _What’s_ okay?” he snaps, jaw clenching.

 

Bucky just stands and faces Steve, not answering at first. He doesn’t reach out with his hands, though Steve can tell by his body language that he wants to. Instead, he reaches out with his gaze, locking their eyes.

 

“Anything you want, Steve,” he says, in that same serious tone.

 

Steve feels a strange, squirming sensation in his stomach at the implications of those words.

 

“Anything I want?” he laughs shakily, thinking for a second of pinning Bucky down like the porn he watches, or making him leave so he doesn't have to deal with this at all. Then the next second Bucky sucks in a lip and bites, a sudden reminder to Steve that their lips once touched. He once leaned over this man, both naked as the day they were born, and had two fingers up his ass before Bucky stilled them. Before he stopped Steve, somehow able to tell it wasn’t what he wanted.

 

“What if I want nothing?” Steve tests, watching Bucky closely.

 

Bucky’s eyes just squint with scrutiny, before abruptly turning playful. “Not even a snuggle, Rogers?”

 

He’s already stepping back and leaning to sit down on the couch, so it was just a joke--but Steve is a bit thrown by the suggestion.

 

He was worried, before, about the next step. Cuddling seemed like a consolation prize from Peggy, no matter how much he loved it. Cuddling with Natasha is just as platonic. Plus those pesky teenagers last week put it into his head that it was a _kiss_ , and a kiss only, that should be the next step in a budding romantic relationship. That was what Bucky would expect, if he wanted to be serious.

 

But, there _are_ baby steps Steve hasn't considered. Thresholds most people cross without blinking, that he needs to walk carefully through. And who better than with Bucky, who is understanding in every possible way and makes Steve’s stomach behave like an acrobat?

 

“Not wearing that,” Steve decides finally, and watches Bucky’s dazzling eyes transition from confusion to understanding, staring at him for a moment before they crinkle around a wide smile.

 

“Too right,” he agrees.

 

So Steve ends up pulling out his comfiest pair of sweats and his soft ‘Thanks for Muffin’ shirt, and Bucky takes them to the bathroom to change while Steve microwaves two large bowls of ramen and loads up ‘Becoming Jane.’

 

“A lot more huggable,” Steve approves when Bucky walks out, his nice shirt and pants draped over an arm. Bucky does a spin--and his ass looks especially nice in sweats, Steve observes--before putting his work clothing over the back of a chair and plopping next to Steve on the couch. The first ten minutes of the movie is filled with mutual slurping of noodles, until the bowls are empty and there’s nothing but the dialogue of the film filling the silence.

 

They both look at the space between them, apprehensive.

 

Bucky gusts out a breath. “So, if you don’t actually want to cuddle, now would be a good--”

 

Steve tackles him onto his back in answer.

 

“ _Time_ ,” Bucky groans, then gasps, “Ugh, Steve, you’re huge,” as Steve completely lays all his weight on him for a moment, just for kicks and giggles. He does get a kick out of Bucky after a second, but Bucky probably doesn’t have enough air for a giggle of any sort.

 

“Let that serve as a reminder that I can and will squish you before you squish me,” Steve declares as he finally relents, not sure why that’s important to him. Then he slides to the back end of the couch and pulls Bucky by the waist against him.

 

“Fine by me, I’m always the little spoon,” Bucky quips back, and Steve shushes and squeezes him in retaliation.

 

But he isn’t able to concentrate on the movie too much, with Bucky pressed against his front. It’s more or less the same as with Natasha the night before, but for some reason Steve’s stomach flutters and reacts differently. Bucky at least seems content, occasionally re-situating to get more comfortable, but never giving ‘signals’ he wants less or more. At least, not ones Steve recognizes.

 

He does whisper, “You’re really warm and comfortable,” at some point. It makes Steve blush and hold Bucky just a little tighter.

 

“You’re very squishable,” he whispers, and Bucky lets out a breathy amused sound.

 

“Nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he murmurs back.

 

He falls asleep before the ending, which Steve thinks is probably a mercy, considering how particularly sad this one is. Jane could have had it, after all--everything she ever wanted. But in so doing, that ‘everything’ that she wanted, that person, would be giving up so much in return. Too much.

 

He understands why she walked away.

 

Steve indulges for another ten minutes after he turns off the screen before waking Bucky up to go home, just holding the sleeping, peaceful person in his arms--a person that’s always been caring and understanding, and worthy of everything the world could give him. Of so many things Steve can’t promise to give him--now or later.

 

He holds him tighter, for now.

 

* * *

 

The Kinsey Scale never worked for Steve. At the age of questioning everything, his high school sophomore year, his mom suggested taking a look into it. But just from the first test he found, Steve realized his sexuality might be even more complicated than he supposed:

 

_Do you feel attraction towards: a) only the opposite gender, b) mostly the opposite gender, only incidentally the same gender, c) usually the opposite gender, but occasionally the same gender, d) only the same gender, e) mostly the same gender, only incidentally the opposite gender, f) usually the same gender, but occasionally the opposite gender . . ._

 

Confusing, maybe for any 16 year old with little to no experience. But the problem for him lay in the very first word: ‘attraction.’ Which Steve didn’t even have a concrete idea of, considering at that point he’d never wanted to pursue a sexual relationship in his life.

 

He didn’t know that ‘Kinsey Scale tests’ were bullshit to begin with, and the numbers were supposed to be based off a person’s sexual history, nothing more.

 

In that case . . . Steve didn’t even exist on the scale.

 

He went on without labels for the rest of high school, shrugging when anyone asked why he wasn’t dating. Then he went to college, and upon learning such things, ‘panromantic’ was a term he identified with. But when he used it, it seemed to give people all the wrong ideas. Like the ability to have romantic feeling for anyone, regardless of gender or lack thereof, somehow translated into ‘sex fanatic.’ Calling himself a demisexual, on top of that--assuming a person even knew what that was--seemed like an oxymoron to many around him. How could Steve potentially love everyone, but never get sexual with basically anyone?

 

He had this idea, once, that the right person would just waltz into his life. They’d become his best friend, and fall for him as he fell for them. Labels, roadblocks, and histories would have to hang up their hats in the face of True Love.

 

He had this idea, once, until he discarded it as just a trope from the sappy period films he became so fond of.

 

(Maybe he should have held onto it a little longer.)

 

* * *

 

Three weeks and twenty two cuddling sessions later, Bucky lays on his back on top of Steve, groaning dramatically, and Steve laughs so hard underneath he’s starting to get the urge to pee.

 

“I’m going to implode,” Bucky whines, trying to shield his stomach from Steve’s tickling fingers. “You’re gonna have to wipe me off the walls.”

 

Steve finally finds an opening and tickles Bucky’s lower ribs again, making the other guy squirm, laugh, then groan even louder.

 

“Seriously, Steve, I might have salmonella,” he complains, and tries once again to get away.

 

Steve too quickly wraps both arms and legs around Bucky like a koala, caging him and putting more pressure on his stomach.

 

“Ah! Fine, fine, please I’m gonna die,” Bucky laughs, falling back onto Steve’s chest in defeat.

 

“Poor Bucky, stealing half the bowl,” Steve mockingly commiserates. “Snitching all the dough. Never too full for cookies, though, right?”

 

Bucky makes a half-laughing, half-groaning sound in answer.

 

“That’s not a no,” Steve points out with evil glee. “I can go grab you a plate--”

 

“No, no, I can’t--I’m too full! I am, you win, okay?” Bucky gives in hysterically, and Steve finally stops trying to tickle him.

 

“Well luckily we still made enough even _with_ your stealing fingers for Pepper’s party,” Steve says, relaxing into the couch.

 

“I don’t think I’ll ever eat snicker doodle again,” Bucky sighs, and twists to curl against Steve’s side. “I’m going to have cream of tartar embedded in my taste buds for at least a week.”

 

“Whose fault is--”

 

“Mine! Mine, yeah yeah,” Bucky interrupts. Then he pouts up at Steve. “Not my fault I’m not used to being surrounded by deliciousness like you are. It’s been five _hours_ , Steve.”

 

“200 cookies later,” Steve agrees, rubbing his hand up and down Bucky’s back. He looks down at Bucky and just enjoys the pretty blue of his eyes for a second, the tiny crow’s feet in the corners forever hinting at a smile. They still dazzle him on a regular basis, but he’s getting used to feeling dazzled, if that’s possible.

 

“What?” Bucky asks after a while.

 

Steve blushes, realizing he’s still staring. “I like your eyes,” he admits with a small smile.

 

Bucky’s eyes immediately widen, then hastily look to the side.

 

“I like yours too,” he murmurs a moment later.

 

Steve scoots up a little, suddenly feeling emboldened. “What else?” he asks.

 

“What?” Bucky leans up too, propping his head up with an arm on Steve’s chest and giving him a strange look. “You want me to stroke your ego or something?”

 

“No,” Steve rolls his eyes, “just curious.”

 

Bucky snorts at first, but then his face softens. He reaches with his free hand and traces the bridge of Steve’s nose. “This one’s my favorite,” he says with a smirk. “Ugliest nose I ever saw.”

 

Steve swipes his hand away. “Jerk.”

 

Bucky just laughs, leans down, and kisses it.

 

They both stare at each other as he leans back.

 

“I did not think that through,” Bucky says, eyes wide with horror.

 

But Steve feels . . . well, not turned on by any means.

 

But--cared for? special? . . . loved, even?

 

“It was just my nose, Buck,” he says with a shrug. “I forgive you. I’d like . . . okay, not to _kiss you_ kiss you exactly, but that kind of thing feels fine.”

 

“I’m confused,” Bucky admits, frowning. “I thought you said you just liked cuddling--”

 

“It depends.” Steve grabs Bucky’s free hand and laces their fingers together. “But I like you. So . . .”

 

Bucky narrows his eyes and leans closer again. “So if I just . . . ?” He quickly pecks Steve’s cheek, then pulls back like he’s waiting for a sentencing.

 

“Hmm, think you’re doing it wrong pal,” Steve grins, and ignores the twisting sensation in his stomach as he takes Bucky’s face with both hands and presses a soft kiss on his cheek.

 

There’s a tiny bit of stubble, and it’s slightly warm, twitching as Bucky smiles. Steve’s lips feel like a new, awakened part of him, more sensitive than normal as they meet Bucky’s cheek.

 

“Yeah, I was definitely doing it wrong,” Bucky breathes when their eyes meet again.

 

Steve feels strange, and good, and . . . maybe a tiny bit in love.

 

“I’ve got to pee,” he says quickly, and Bucky blinks twice before bursting into laughter--then complaint-filled groaning, again.

 

Later--after Steve has peed of course--they take turns showering off the flour and cookie smell, Bucky having the foresight to bring a change of clothes. He dresses in Steve’s bathroom, probably trying to not infringe on some assumed boundary. It’s not necessary, of course. Steve watches porn after all, he's not afraid of nudity by any means. But the consideration behind the action still makes him smile.

 

“Thanks for your help, I know it’s your day off--” Steve starts when Bucky emerges from the bathroom.

 

Bucky cuts him off partly just by his appearance. Dark green button down shirt, well-fit black slacks. Hair styled, but still damp. Clean shaven, smiling. Beautiful.

 

“How else would I spend it?” he responds with, and Steve has to rethink about what he’s responding to, he’s so distracted.

 

Bucky helps him put all the cookies in their special, circular delivery boxes, and load up the backseat and trunk of Bucky’s car for the short drive to the country club Tony rented out for the occasion. The place is gorgeous, elegant, yet warm and welcoming as they walk in with the first load of cookies. “Tony did something right for once,” Bucky quips as they look around.

 

“Yeah, and that was asking _me_ to choose the venue,” a voice says behind them, and Steve and Bucky turn to see Rhodey, Tony’s next door neighbor. He looks between them smugly. “When did you two get together?”

 

Steve opens his mouth, but Bucky beats him with, “Just friends, actually. Though I might be in love with Steve’s baking,” and Rhodey raises both eyebrows but lets them be.

 

 _Just friends_.

 

Steve’s always taken comfort in the phrase, but now the words sound like a death sentence.

 

Before he can say anything, Rocket yells “Bucky!” as he and the rest of Peter Quill’s household walk in, and Steve finds himself abandoned at the table as Bucky goes to talk with them.

 

It’s still 30 minutes before Tony ‘gets a flat tire’ on the side of the road and brings Pepper in, but most of the neighborhood is trickling in. Sam and Natasha gratefully take Steve’s saved spots for them, and the Danvers family snag the last three chairs at the table just before the dinner officially begins.

 

“Where’s your Bucky boy?” Sam asks, looking pointedly at the empty seat next to Steve.

 

“Just follow where Steve’s eyes go,” Natasha responds, mock-whispering.

 

Steve blinks out of his current stare to glare at Natasha, but only for a second. Bucky currently is chatting between Nakia and T’Challa. Probably asking when M’Baku is visiting again, he thinks grumpily. Not that it matters. _Just friends, just friends, just friends_ , is running through his head on a torturous loop.

 

Bucky takes his seat finally just as someone turns out the lights and everyone quiets, listening intently to the click clack click clack of Pepper’s heels.

 

Then Tony opens the door, saying as he reaches for the lights, “I’ll just call and move back the reservation--”

 

And everyone screams, “Happy Birthday!”

 

The party is perfect. Steve begrudgingly has a great time, Bucky and Sam and Natasha and Carol and Maria and Monica making the best table-mates as they mutter comments and jokes about Tony’s hilarious speech. The food is catered and practically gourmet, and of course the cookies are a hit. Then they all get up as the tables are pushed to the side and the real party begins.

 

Steve is terrible at dancing, but Bucky doesn’t seem to care--he grabs his hands for the first dance and swings them with the rhythm, pushing Steve away and pulling him close in time with the beat so Steve only has to follow. He dances with Natasha next, and Steve is in awe a bit at the way the two move together. Sam watches them as well, though with a little less awe and a little more annoyance. “All I gotta say is good thing he’s straight as a rainbow,” he mutters, before quickly taking Natasha back for the next dance.

 

“Steve,” Pepper says, suddenly at Steve’s left, and the second he turns to her she envelopes him in a hug.

 

“Happy birthday,” he says, a bit stunned as she pulls back and puts a hand on his cheek.

 

“I can’t tell you how much it means to me, you taking on that big of an order, you could have just--”

 

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “I had help. It was my pleasure, Pepper.”

 

“And hers,” Tony says, stepping into Steve’s view. He shakes Steve’s hands, whistling, “I’m getting lucky tonight, Cap. All thanks to you.”

 

Pepper smacks him in the chest, but there’s no real malice to it. Tony’s grin only grows wider.

 

The song ends and Bucky skips over just then, his eyes brightening as he notices Steve’s company. “Happy birthday, Miss Potts!”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Bucky was a big help baking today, too,” Steve adds, and Pepper’s smile instantly grows wider.

 

“You two make the perfect pair,” she declares, and Tony smirks.

 

“I dunno, you’re both so big,” he says, eyeing both of them appreciatively. Steve is immediately reminded why he doesn’t spend any long periods of time around the guy. “Do you wrestle every time to decide who tops--?”

 

Pepper smacks him again, though this time there’s a lot more force in it.

 

“We’re _just friends_ ,” Steve says, unable to stop himself from adding the emphasis. He sees Bucky shoot him a look from the corner of his eye. “Thanks for your concern, though.”

 

Steve stalks over to their table the second Pepper steers Tony away, sipping on his soda float bitterly as Bucky returns to the dance floor.

 

“You remind me of my mom,” a young voice says nearby, and Steve turns to see Monica holding her own float, a stack of snicker doodle cookies on her plate.

 

“Which one?” Steve asks, and young Monica Rambeau-Danvers smirks back at him.

 

“Mamma Danvers,” she says, slumping against her seat with a shrug. “She and my mom were just best friends for like, half my life, and she hated Mom enjoying herself without her.”

 

Steve bristles. “I’m glad he’s happy--”

 

“But you want to be the reason he is,” she says with a knowing look that does not belong on a 12 year old’s face.

 

Steve sighs, and nods.

 

“Just tell him,” Monica declares in a obstinate voice, as if it’s so simple.

 

It isn’t, really. Steve doesn’t have the energy or the right to explain the complications of this relationship to a pre-pubescent kid. How more than 3 months into hanging with Bucky on the daily they’ve done no more than cuddle--but maybe now is the time to talk out those things with Bucky. _Really_ talk them out, this time, in the context of pursuing something together. Because that’s what Steve wants. If Bucky wants.

 

When Bucky drives Steve home that night and pulls into his driveway, he doesn’t get out of the car right away. “Want to come in for a minute?” Steve offers, but Bucky shakes his head.

 

“I’m going to crash the second I’m on a flat surface, I think.”

 

Steve bites his lip. “Okay.”

 

“Steve?” Bucky asks after another moment, turning better to face him in the car. Steve does reluctantly too, bracing himself for the intensity of looking into the other guy’s eyes in the dark. There’s no way to really prepare for it, though.

 

“We’re . . . just friends,” he starts hesitantly, and something immediately shutters in Bucky’s expression.

 

“God, was it the dancing? I’m sorry, Stevie, I won’t do it again--”

 

“Shut up for a second,” Steve stops him, and Bucky’s mouth shuts with a pop. “We’re just friends, right?”

 

“. . . right,” Bucky says slowly, raising an eyebrow.

 

Steve blushes, and thanks his lucky stars they’re sitting in the dark. “But if I wanted to be . . . _more_ than that? Would you, too?”

 

He remembers doing this with Peggy. They’d been more typical of friends--less touchiness than him and Bucky had already managed, but knew each other a lot longer. When he told her his complicated feelings for her over milkshakes, she had kissed his hand and declared him the best man she ever knew. Before kindly rejecting him.

 

But Bucky is still frowning, apparently not understanding. “More . . . how? Steve, I thought--”

 

“I’m in love with you,” Steve says quickly, then winces.

 

He probably sounds like a fake. Putting up so many lines between the two of them, and what he wanted and didn't want, then suddenly throwing his heart at Bucky’s feet. It _is_ sudden. For Steve, it’s only the second time of his life, and so much faster than before.

 

Bucky stares at him, then forward at his dash for a long second. He turns off the car and takes the keys from the ignition, nodding, “Yeah, I’ll come in for a minute.”

 

Bucky doesn’t say a word as they head in, as he toes his shoes off inside the door and the two of them walk silently to the couch.

 

Bucky sits down first, and holds out both arms to invite Steve’s embrace. Steve hesitantly accepts, the two merely hugging at first in the middle of the couch, before Bucky slowly tips him, Steve ending up on his back with  Bucky above him.

 

Bucky looks down at him, then, brows furrowed in apprehension. “Okay. So. What kind of love are we talking? Natasha kind of love, do baking interventions and snuggling sessions? Peggy kind of love, want to have sex and be in a relationship? Somewhere in between?”

 

Steve wants to hide in a corner. Put like that, he understands Bucky’s confusion--he’s confused himself, now. “What about you?” he asks defensively, not wanting to reveal his heart any more than he has without some reciprocation.

 

Bucky just shrugs, re-situating above him. “What about me?”

 

Steve huffs, gritting out, “Don’t play dumb--how do you feel about  _me_ ?” 

 

His heart sinks, because Bucky is looking down at him like he’s insane. Like it’s the most ridiculous question Steve could have asked. And Steve really should have known. He’s not anything close to a catch, after all--he’s a weird, complicated, confusing mess of a human being, on a good day.

 

But then Bucky says, “You dumb fuck, you don’t know? How thick is that skull, Rogers?” and he kisses Steve’s nose, hard. And pulls back with grim satisfaction. “I love every stupid inch of you, Steve.”

 

Steve blinks, once, twice--and then abruptly rolls them over so he’s on top.

 

“How was that supposed to be obvious?” he says, pushing annoyance into his voice instead of what’s crowding his head: euphoria, joy, _love_.

 

Bucky huffs a laugh and strokes a hand gently up and down Steve’s back. The sensation feels new, but welcome. “You’re one weird cookie, no pun intended,” he shakes his head ruefully. “I know it’s different for you, but all the stuff we’ve done together? The conversations and cooking and watching movies, how much you make me laugh . . . I was a goner by Week 2.”

 

Week _two_?

 

Steve was just starting to consider them friends, _maybe_ , by that point.

 

Normal people are crazy.

 

“Well. What can I say, you’re a microwave, I’m an oven,” he defends, and Bucky laughs, eyes twinkling.

 

“No, you’re a _crock pot_ , Steven Rogers,” he declares, and Steve can’t disagree.

 

“Fine. So . . . what now?” he asks hesitantly, realizing their current positions with Bucky under him--and how not prepared for such an activity he feels.

 

Bucky just slumps, luckily, turning a cheek against the couch cushion. “Now? You get off me, and I sleep here for the night. I warned you I’d crash on the next horizontal surface I landed on.”

 

“And we talk tomorrow,” Steve adds, to which Bucky gives him a small, warm smile in answer.

 

Steve has never met someone like him. So willing to be together, in whatever capacity Steve desires, all the while being quietly in love with him. For _months_. It’s still a little crazy in his mind, that Bucky could love him and want him so quickly, but Steve’s not about to complain. He just grabs a pillow and sheets to do up the couch, and kisses Bucky’s cheek when he falls asleep before Steve can even tuck him in with his mom’s favorite quilt.

 

He goes to bed and stares at the ceiling, seriously reconsidering the idea that there isn't a 'right person' for him after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out we'll be showered with 100% sugar, no more salt! And the E rating will get Earned.
> 
> Consider leaving a comment and/or kudos if you've made it this far :) Thanks lovelies!


	4. All You Knead is Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW thanks for all the feedback and support from last chapter!! I felt so loved *blushes, but not adorably like Steve* 
> 
> Somehow I forgot to tag Virgin Steve till now, so that's done. Just in time to not be relevant anymore...hehehehe
> 
> Anyways. Enjoy!

Steve’s body wakes him up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the butt crack of dawn. He lays in his bed until six just to spite it. There’s no going back to sleep though, apparently, so eventually Steve leaves his bedroom and quietlychecks on Bucky.

 

He’s dead to the world on the couch still--which makes sense, considering they got home around one a.m.--and probably will be for a few hours. Steve has to resist the selfish urge to wake him up anyway. Instead he just brushes a lock of hair from Bucky’s cheek, and watches his chest gently move up and down.

 

Steve sort of just wants to snuggle in beside him, but the couch is too small for that. Maybe he should consider a larger couch. He still remembers that gentle up and down motion of Bucky’s hand on his back last night--or more accurately, earlier this morning--and how good it felt.

 

Instead he grabs his phone and scrolls through his pancake board on Pinterest while simultaneously checking his kitchen for ingredients. Spiced banana pancakes seem to be the winner, if he doesn’t want to go to the store, so Steve grabs his bunch of bananas and Keep Calm and Bake On apron and gets going.

 

30 minutes later he hears an exaggerated yawn over the sizzle of pancakes, and Bucky pads in with half-lidded eyes and adorable bed-head. He fell asleep in his nice clothing from the party, but despite the rumpled, stiff clothing Steve still has the immediate urge to wrap him up in his arms and squeeze the life out of him. He manages to curb it by clearing his throat and quickly focusing back on Bucky’s face.

 

Whose eyes widen as he takes in the large stack of pancakes already cooked. “For me?” he breathes as he walks over, giving Steve a dopey smile. Steve has to roll his eyes to resist giving one back.

 

“All yours, Buck,” he nods, and hands the syrup over.

 

While Bucky starts on his food he complains, “This is the kind of stuff I was talking about, last night. I sleep over and you wake me up with pancakes? How ever was I to resist?”

 

Steve shrugs, feeling weirdly defensive. “I like feeding people.”

 

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, Steve.”

 

It doesn’t feel that way. From what he’s seen, the way to a man’s heart is through his dick. Steve is suddenly reminded of M’Baku and that whole fiasco. It’s one of the reasons he wanted to talk things out more last night, but Bucky’d been too tired. Now he’s right here, listening, and Steve has no idea what to say.

 

He takes the time to flip all the pancakes on the griddle before Bucky asks, “What is it?”

 

Steve glances back to see the slightly concerned, slightly affectionate look Bucky’s giving him, which is an impressive feat considering his mouth is also bulging full of pancake on one side.

 

It makes him laugh, at least, which helps drain his inner tension enough for Steve to say, “You had sex with M’Baku.” Bucky immediately stiffens and swallows, probably too soon judging by his grimace. “You said you loved me since Week 2, but there’s obviously . . .” Steve has to look down, run a hand through his hair before continuing, “ _Needs_ you have. That I wasn’t fulfilling. And, uh, don’t feel inclined to, to be honest. Not yet, anyway. But, if we were to be together--”

 

“Of course I won’t have sex with anyone,” Bucky interrupts in a flat voice, glaring at Steve. “That’s ridiculous. You are way more important than my sex drive.”

 

Hope flutters in Steve’s stomach, but he’s been down this road too many times to heed it. “You say that now--”

 

“Because it’s true!”

 

Bucky’s earnestness is nearly as scary as it is encouraging. Steve has to get a hold of himself if he’s going to say everything else that needs to be said. He turns around and busies himself pouring more batter onto the griddle, just to avoid Bucky’s eyes.

 

“I want to be in a romantic relationship,” Steve murmurs with his back to Bucky. “But for other people, the difference between what you and I’ve been doing and what we’d do as a couple is sex. And everything that leads up to it.”

 

“Which are things you might want later, but not right now,” Bucky confirms, sounding much closer all of a sudden. Steve nods and turns his head just as Bucky plasters himself against his back, wrapping arms around Steve’s waist. He smiles at Steve and kisses his cheek, who promptly feels his face heat up.

 

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

 

Bucky rests his chin on his shoulder, sighing, “Okay, but. What about holding hands? In public?” He traces one hand down Steve’s arm, interlacing fingers with the hand not currently holding a spatula. Steve’s stomach quickly melts into a puddle. “Taking you out, calling you my boyfriend? Or telling me more about your mom? Or having you meet my family?” Bucky rubs his nose into Steve’s neck, adding, “Or even sleeping in the same bed?”

 

Of course. There are thresholds people cross without blinking, jump through all at once, that he keeps forgetting to consider. And Bucky of all people is here to remind him. Steve has to swallow harder than usual before he can say, “God, I love you.”

 

“Is that a yes?” Bucky asks, and Steve doesn’t have to turn his head again to know he’s grinning.

 

“Have a pancake,” Steve says instead of answering, and promptly stuffs one in his face.

 

But it is a yes. And the hand holding becomes a near-constant over the next few weeks, as well as the boyfriend-calling. Natasha is the first one to know, of course, though how exactly neither Steve nor Bucky can figure out. She just comes by with ‘Congrats!’ and “You did it!” balloons the very next day, and kisses them both on the cheek. The news spreads quickly to the rest of the neighborhood when they walk into Asgard Fitness Center hand in hand.

 

As for family, Steve opens up his mother’s bin of memorabilia and lets Bucky visit her grave with him, once--and Steve gets quickly invited to the next Barnes family dinner, in which Bucky’s three sisters spend the entire conversation either asking Steve about Captain Cookie or staring at his hands.

 

“Has Bucky told you about his hand fetish yet?” Becca, the oldest, asks when Mama Barnes is in the kitchen grabbing dessert.

 

Bucky throws her probably the meanest look Steve’s ever seen on his face, as Steve replies, “Uhhh….”

 

“He liked your videos so much--”

 

“ _Becca_ \--”

 

“Because your hands--”

 

“ _I’ll literally murder you_ \--”

 

“Who’s ready for some cheesecake?” Mama Barnes says as she comes in, saving the day.

 

But as Steve and Bucky walk back later to where they parked their car--a few minutes walk, in the crowded city--Steve can’t help but ask, “So, my hands, huh?”

 

It’s nice to see Bucky blush, for once. He swings the hands they have interlocked between them, muttering, “ _And_ your arms.”

 

Steve laughs, remembering, “When you found out who I was at the 4th of July party you were staring at them. I should have put two and two together.”

 

“What can I say?” Bucky chuckles, shrugging. “I love every stupid piece of you.” And then he raises Steve’s hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.

 

It’s a silly phrase, but Steve can’t find it in himself to laugh. It feels too true, on his end. And, Steve realizes, he wants Bucky to know that. He wants every piece of Bucky to be loved, taken care of, worshipped. By him, and him only.

 

Oh god.

 

He wants to have _sex_.

 

Natasha warned him, months and months ago now, that when the right person came sex wouldn’t sound dumb, it’d sound ‘fuckin’ scary.’ Steve has to admit now that she’s right. But he can do _something_ about this sudden desire to taste every inch of Bucky’s skin.

 

So he stops them on the sidewalk and backs Bucky up against the wall, putting a hand against his cheek. Bucky stares at him, eyes wide and glittering in the dark, mouth opening to say something--but Steve kisses him before he can.

 

It takes a second, considering Steve hasn’t kissed anyone since Bucky himself six years ago, but the second Bucky’s lips move against his they find a soothing, gentle rhythm. Steve remembers liking his lips before, but now. But now?

 

Now he feels like they’re communicating in a whole new language, a simpler, primal language of _I want you_ and _I want you back_ . _I’ve seen you, and I want you even more_.

 

Every time they pause Steve starts giggling, and Bucky joins him, but the second the giddy elation starts to fade he dives back in for more. After the third or fourth time of this Steve moves on, however, kissing Bucky’s cheeks and jaw and nose and forehead like an overeager puppy until Bucky starts shaking his head.

 

“Okay okay okay!” he laughs, leaning away.

 

Steve pulls back, and they grin at each other like stupid idiots for probably a stupid amount of time.

 

“What brought that on?” Bucky asks, and though he’s smirking Steve can see the bubbly elation in his eyes. Steve is sure his reflects the same.

 

“You had something on your face,” he says cheekily, which makes Bucky roll his eyes.

 

“Punk.”

 

They walk the rest of the way grinning like idiots.

 

* * *

 

Steve’s relationship and/or sex history was as followed:

 

  1. The note he sent to a girl in 3rd grade asking to be his girlfriend, to which she sent back ‘Yes!’ only to dump him on the playground the next day.



 

  1. The huge crush he had on his best friend Gabe from 7th grade up through high school, to which he never fessed up to.



 

  1. The confession to Peggy of his romantic feelings, to which he was kindly shut down. Steve couldn’t be upset, especially not when Peggy and Gabe ended up together.



 

  1. The girl he sat by in Physics class, Lorraine, who let him borrow her notes. He asked her out and quickly regretted it when she tried to get in his pants five minutes into the movie.



 

  1. The friend of a friend Sharon, who tried to make it work for a while but eventually told Steve their relationship was too one-sided.



 

  1. The sudden frenzy to lose his v-card before graduation, in which Dum-Dum set him up with Bucky to get drinks and Steve got closest to having sex than ever before: naked, kissing, stretching Bucky’s hole, about to push himself inside--and feeling hollow and empty and lost before Bucky gently pulled his fingers out, kissed him and asked what was wrong.



 

Six. Six times Steve had tried and failed to be with someone, whether romantically or just sexually. It wasn’t near enough times to earn meeting ‘the one,’ but enough times for Steve to get too tired to look anyway.

 

* * *

 

Peter hasn’t stopped by as much since school started, so it’s with surprise that Steve opens the door one evening in early December to see him pacing frantically on his porch.

 

“Mr. Rogers, sir! I’m so sorry to bother you, sir, but Mr. Stark couldn’t--”

 

“Come on in,” Steve interrupts, to which Peter’s shoulders sag in relief.

 

A large grin widens his face as he takes in the scene of Steve’s kitchen in its current state, batches of school spirited ‘Avengers cookies’ laying on near every surface. Bucky is standing in the middle of it rolling out more cookie dough, and waves a hand at Peter with a, “Hey! How’s school?”

 

“Winter Formal’s this Friday,” Peter says immediately, sounding stricken.

 

“And that’s bad because . . . ?” Steve asks as he goes back to using his specially-made ‘A’ cookie cutter.

 

Peter sits at the bar stool and glances between them desperately. “Because I thought me and MJ were going together, but her friend just told me she was still waiting for me to ask! And I already bought the tickets!”

 

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him. “So? Just ask.”

 

“No guy _just asks_ ,” Peter groans. “You have to like, serenade her from a balcony, or make a heart trail from her locker to yours, or--”

 

“Hire an airplane to write it from the sky?” Steve suggests, to which Bucky snorts and Peter suddenly lights up.

 

“That’s a good one! But I’d need an airplane . . .”

 

“Okay, but you came to Captain Cookie’s,” Bucky points out with a sticky, dough-encrusted hand. Steve sort of just loves the sight, however gross. “So while we don’t have a plane like Mr. Stark perhaps, I’m sure Steve could pull out some alphabet cookie cutters. Steve?”

 

Steve indeed does have the full alphabet in cookie cutters along with most punctuation marks, and helps Peter cut them out with the dough they already have and bake a batch that spells W-I-N-T-E-R-F-O-R-M-A-L-?. When Steve whips together the frosting for all the cookies he dies a separate bowl seaweed green, as that’s apparently MJ’s favorite color.

 

“Thank you thank you thank you!” Peter grovels when the cookies have been placed neatly in a Captain Cookie circular delivery box. “You guys, uh, sirs, are like the best!” Peter nearly skips away after he’s let out the door.

 

Later, after a quick dinner and another three hours of cookie-baking, Steve and Bucky collapse into his bed with near simultaneous groans.

 

“I can’t _believe_ I was the one to think of anti-fatigue mats for your kitchen,” Bucky says.

 

“They do help,” Steve agrees, “but it doesn’t change my lower back spazzing out after 12 hours.”

 

“I don’t think anything will change that,” Bucky chuckles, twisting his head to give Steve a pointed look.

 

Steve huffs. “It’s harder to mix things sitting down!”

 

“Isn’t that what your Kitchen Aid is for?”

 

“Sure, but it’s not the same as--”

 

“As using those rippling arm muscles, yeah yeah.”

 

Steve shoves him a little using said rippling arm muscle, which just makes the other guy laugh. “Want me to help?” Bucky says after he’s quieted, sounding a little more serious.

 

Steve feels himself stiffen.

 

After a few complaints about his back Bucky has offered to kneed out the kinks a few times, but every time Steve gives in he ends up with an awkward boner and more sexual energy than he knows to deal with, with Bucky in the room. But now he’s taken too long to respond, and Bucky probably assumes he doesn’t like it when the problem is Steve likes it _too_ much.

 

“Or not--”

 

“Yes, but--”

 

They both stop, and Bucky scoots closer to squeeze Steve’s arm before saying, “You first.”

 

“Um,” Steve blushes. “I’d like you to . . . but I also really want to jack off every time you do.”

 

Bucky stares at him for a second before he bursts into laughter. “That is not what I expected to come out of your mouth.”

 

“I’m demisexual, not dead,” Steve murmurs with a smirk, which earns him a warm, gentle kiss from Bucky’s smiling mouth.

 

“I know,” he answers, then props up his head. “So, what would you want to do about it? No more massages--”

 

“No!”

 

“Okay,” he concedes with a teasing look, “I could leave the room for however long? Or you could, if you’d prefer--”

 

“Would you mind if, I, uh, just--?” Steve asks, not explaining but probably not needing to.

 

Bucky raises an eyebrow, but nods. “Of course. Obviously I’m happy to stay. But, while I massage you? Or would you prefer me to not be touching you?”

 

It’d be hard but not impossible to masturbate with Bucky straddling him and kneading his back. Steve almost wishes he didn’t say anything--what if he changes his mind in the middle of things and leaves Bucky disappointed?

 

It’s a testament to the amount of trust and love in their relationship that Steve just breathes through that fear and admits, “Not sure. Right now touching sounds fine, but.”

 

“But we’ll play it by ear,” Bucky grins easily. "Don't want to end up like poor Peter and just assume."

 

Steve throws off his shirt and flattens completely on the bed, allowing the other guy to straddle him and properly begin pressing against his back muscles. For all that Steve works out and stretches, his back has always been a pain since he was a kid, and it feels heavenly just to have that slight pressure Bucky starts with as his knuckles move up his spine.

 

He squeezes Steve’s shoulders lightly before digging into them a little harder, tracing Steve’s tendons with the hard ball of his thumbs and the tips of his fingers. When one thumb presses hard, just above Steve’s shoulder blade, his whole body stiffens before all-at-once relaxing. The thrumming pleasure as his kinks and sores are worked out plus the warmth of Bucky’s hands, the heavy pressure of his body straddling Steve’s hips, rocking back and forth as Bucky’s hands move up and down his back--yeah, it's no surprise when Steve gets another hard-on.

 

He lets that just be another point of distant pleasure amidst all the ones up and down his back for a while, but eventually it turns from a pleasant feeling to a growing need. As Bucky slows down and begins to just stratch his nails lightly up and down Steve’s bare back, a shiver moves up Steve’s spine and he can’t help but rut lightly into the sheets, eyes squeezing shut.

 

“Yeah?” Bucky breathes in answer, stilling his hands.

 

“Get off, but keep--doing that,” Steve whispers, and Bucky immediately obeys, pressure gone from Steve’s ass. He misses it, but it’s easier to prop himself up, move a hand into his pajama pants.

 

Bucky stays quiet, just lightly scratches Steve’s back as he palms himself. Steve has no idea what expression is on the other guy’s face with his eyes still shut tight. He’s not sure he could bear looking Bucky in the eyes while doing this, even though he also wishes Bucky could be closer.

 

“You can take yourself out, Steve,” Bucky whispers after a minute.

 

Steve’s not sure he can, though, with Bucky in the room. “Maybe you should . . .” he starts, but can’t finish, because he _does_ want Bucky here. Sighing in defeat, Steve pulls his hand out and flops onto his back, deciding, “Not going to work I guess.”

 

Bucky just “hmms” and begins lightly scratching Steve’s chest instead. His brow is drawn together, Steve can see now with his eyes open, like Bucky’s trying to mentally work out the complicated algebra of this predicament. Steve hopes he can.

 

“You want me here, but not to see . . . I could close my eyes?” he offers, to which Steve snorts.

 

“That’s just childish.”

 

“Not even a little bit, Steve. Sex is very adultish,” he quips with a smirk, and Steve snags his neck to bring his face down and kiss it off.

 

When he pulls back Steve admits, “I do want you to see. But I also don’t want to feel like a spectacle--”

 

“Did you feel like one when we first met and tried this?” Bucky interrupts, cocking his head. He idly traces his brows and nose as Steve tries to remember.

 

“No?” he says, and Bucky traces the line forming between his two eyebrows. “I mean, a little, but it helped that you were naked too--”

 

Bucky pinched his lips shut with two fingers, suddenly grinning wide. “So we _both_ pull out our dingers.”

 

Steve shakes out of his grip and laughs, “Dingers?”

 

“Cocks, dicks, pricks, sex pistols--”

 

“Okay okay stop! I get it,” Steve laughs, and the two somehow end up kissing repeatedly, till Steve’s so-called ‘sex pistol’ is as hard as ever.

 

“Okay, but do you want to try it?” Bucky makes sure when they part, ever the gentleman.

 

“Yeah. Together,” Steve nods, suddenly feeling a lot less scared. Bucky grins and nods, kissing him once more for good measure before laying on his back beside him. There’s an awkward silence for a second before Steve adds, “But you first.”

 

“Jerk,” Bucky laughs, but does shimmy his pajama pants down a little and then presses a hand against the distinct curve of his dick against his trousers. Steve sucks in a breath as he watches Bucky stroke it a few times, before slipping his hand under the elastic and slowly pulling his erection free.

 

Steve’s seen a lot of dicks through the screen of his computer, and technically Bucky’s john isn’t a new sight either. But seeing it now--knowing Bucky was hard for him, wanted _him_ \--is intense like nothing Steve has ever felt. He wants to touch it, he realizes.

 

He reaches down as well, bringing out his own cock to join the party, and for a second there’s only the sound of him and Bucky breathing heavily, staring down at each other’s cocks. “Okay,” Bucky breathes, and gives his a stroke. Steve immediately follows suit, and from then on mimics Bucky’s hand as it sweeps over the head, strokes harder or softer, almost like-- _almost like it’s Bucky’s hand on his cock_.

 

Steve feels the arousal in his stomach make a sweep through his entire body at that thought, and blurts out, “Switch?”

“What do you m--” Bucky never finishes because Steve’s hand suddenly is reaching toward his erection, and all he can do is say, “Oh fuck,” before moving his own hand over to grab Steve’s instead.

 

The difference is immediate, and embarrassingly effective. With Bucky’s actual hand on Steve’s cock, he lasts about 15 seconds before his hips jerk and his whole body seizes around an orgasm--probably the most intense one of Steve’s life thus far. Come shoots and lands on Bucky’s hand and his own abdomen in impressive spurts. And distracts him enough that he’s neglecting Bucky’s cock, who wraps a hand around Steve’s and helps him move it like he should be doing. Steve blinks back into reality then and works him like he would his own, wringing out an orgasm a minute later that Bucky groans and shudders through.

 

“Holy shit, that’s hot,” Steve mutters as the come gets all over his hand, and quickly leans over to devour Bucky’s mouth as he slowly strokes him through the aftershocks. Bucky clings to him with his clean hand, finally breaking away to gather some much-needed oxygen.

 

“We just had sex,” he says after his breathing’s calmed down, sounding slightly hysterical.

 

Steve can relate. But he plays it off anyway with, “I dunno, does a handjob count--?”

 

“Shit, Steve! I'm serious!” Bucky laughs, the sound both overjoyed and annoyed. But just as quickly he sobers, looking Steve over. “Was it too fast?”

 

“If it was, it’s my own fault for instigating,” Steve grins, but when the other guy’s frown just deepens he sighs and assures, “I don’t regret it, like I would have six years ago, if that’s what you’re asking. _Obviously_ I enjoyed myself.”

 

“Mmm me too,” Bucky says, face melting into a playful smile. “Though I’m not going to enjoy this drying on me in a second.”

 

“Gross, yeah, let’s,” Steve says, and helps Bucky up. They both shimmy out of their pajama pants with their not-disgusting hands and go to jump in the shower. It’s technically the first time they’ve been naked together in years, but after what they’ve just done Steve doesn’t feel any nerves. Just appreciation, for the beautiful man at his side, as they wash each other off under the spray--between broken intervals of kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I *could* end it right here, tbh, but since this is mostly a fluff fic full of sweetness I probably will still extend it another chapter. All I have now is vague ideas, though, so if there's something you guys want to see between Baker!Steve and ThePerfectMan!Bucky before the end, lemme know. Thanks lovelies!!!


	5. An apron is just a cape on backwards PART ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this half chapter written for FOREVER and, finally, decided maybe I should go ahead and post it and get motivation to write the rest of the ending. So yeah, any motivation you can spare me is appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy!

The beginning of the new year marks a new neighborhood poker tournament, which Bucky is quick to sign up for. Steve goes to support his boyfriend, and maybe, just a little, to watch Sam whoop Natasha's ass in the first game.

 

"I don't get it," Bucky says as Carol shuffles for the next round. "This has to be a trick. There's no way Natasha-- _Natasha_ \--is bad at poker."

 

"Believe it," Rocket laughs, batting his eyelashes at Natasha's death look.

 

"There's only so many times I can bluff out of a shitty hand," she retorts, and gives Carol a pointed look.

 

Carol stares back at her as she shuffles, unimpressed. 

 

"Don't blame the dealer, that's just pathetic," Steve teases, then winces as Natasha's boot connects with his shin.

 

"Not as pathetic as refusing to play," she shoots back.

 

"Alright, alright, chill out everyone," May Parker says, rolling her eyes at all of them. She has the most chips at the moment, of course, so that's easy for her to say. Especially after Natasha loses the last of her meager pile to May the next round.

 

"Hey, anyone out yet? I need help with this cheese ball," Maria calls from the kitchen a few minutes into the next round.

 

"Natasha is," Sam calls back gleefully. Natasha looks like she’s about to murder him.

 

"I'll come too," Steve says, bored with the game anyway. Natasha’s face immediately relaxes, though she still gives a dramatic, put-upon sigh before heading to the kitchen.

 

"But you're my good luck charm," Bucky pouts as Steve rises. He rolls his eyes at his boyfriend’s puppy dog look and squeezes his shoulder, following Natasha out of the room.

 

Maria has them put to work chopping almonds and green onions, and for a few minutes the only noise is from the game in the other room. Steve can tell by the way Natasha keeps side-glancing him, however, that she has something on her mind. 

 

“Second guessing now that you’ve seen Sam's competitive side?” he says to snap her out of it. 

 

Natasha indeed seems to return to earth then, giving him a half-hearted glare.

 

But the feeling hiding behind it finallly manifests--worry. “We had a big fight,” she admits, looking down while chopping the green stalks.

 

Natasha is never one to avoid eye contact, so it’s not the greatest sign. “Haven’t resolved it?” he guesses, and she nods.

 

“We decided to let it sit for now. Not our first. But . . . I can never just _let it sit_.” Natasha sighs, and glances up at Steve finally with a sad half-smirk. “Love sucks.”

 

This is usually the part where he agrees, but Steve couldn’t do so in good conscience right now. Love, for once in his entire life, is less than sucky at the present moment.

 

“You’ll figure it out,” he says, not pressing further. 

 

“Mmm,” Natasha hums noncommittally, then asks, "So everything still going good between you and the Buckster?"

 

It’s a valid question, one that immediately has Steve reminiscing on the holidays. Thanks to the Mar Vell neighborhood he’s never spent Christmas completely alone, but it’s still never been something he could truly enjoy since his mother’s passing. Plus his annual ‘12 Days of Cookiemas’ has always been exhausting, even despite usually hiring half the teenagers in the neighborhood to help. He still did this time. Being with Bucky through all of it, though--going ice skating, spending time with his family, snuggling in Christmas pjs, decorating each of their homes . . .

 

Steve peers out of the kitchen to look at the poker players, though Bucky's mostly out of view. He can see just the profile of his face, staring studiously down at his cards, and feels a ridiculous amount of warmth go down his spine. "Great, Nat," he replies, not able to help a small smile.

 

Natasha doesn’t stop there. "No pressuring? No obligating? No guilt-trips?"

 

She's protective as hell on a good day, so Steve isn't offended on Bucky's behalf. He just bumps hips with her lightly and finishes chopping the last of the almonds. "If there was it'd be over," he promises. “I thought you approved of him?”

 

 Natasha lets out a sigh.“Sam hangs out with him sometimes, he told me recently that Bucky seemed the type who would 'fuck a lamp.'"

 

"Or a game controller," Steve snickers, thinking of what Dum Dum told him years ago.

 

Natasha's eyebrows do a little dance. "Okay, not news to you I guess."

 

"If it doesn't work, I'm not going to force it," Steve assures her. "But he never pushes me. If anyone ever did--"

 

"I know, you can take care of yourself," Natasha sighs.

 

"Nice to know you and Buck have my back anyway though," Steve shrugs, dumping the shavings into a bowl.

 

"Oh, so he's got your back does he? When are you planning to get him on _his_ back?" she teases.

 

Steve groans. "One moment you're defending my virtue, the next--"

 

"Not your virtue, Rogers," she snorts, then bumps their hips herself. "Just your full, enthusiastic consent."

 

And, well. Fair enough.

 

His love for Bucky goes far beyond just the other guy’s respectful nature, however much Steve appreciates it. Every time he so much as _thinks_ about Bucky the world seems a brighter, more hopeful place. Steve wants to live in it, improve it, be better in it. From his humor to his kindness to his habit of being amazing at practically everything--

 

"Is it weird to think . . . this is it?" he whispers, almost afraid to say the words out loud.

 

Natasha's face at first looks stunned, then contemplative. "I've wondered that nearly every time I get serious with someone," she says slowly. "So no, not weird."

 

"But not a sign, I take it," Steve guesses, to which Natasha gives him a long, indecipherable look.

 

"I don't know," she says finally. "Maybe, for you."

 

Steve doesn't know how to take that.

 

"Maybe this is just my inner small-town matchmaker talking," Maria suddenly butts in, taking their finished bowls. Steve shouldn’t be surprised she’s been eavesdropping, but he still jumps a little. Maria gives him an apologetic smile as she continues, "But both of you found someone well-matched for you in this neighborhood. Sam's a keeper, Nat. And, new or not, Bucky fits in here like a glove. I'd hate to see him go."

 

Steve opens his mouth to immediately assure her that isn't cause for concern, but the words get stuck in his throat. 

 

Now that he thinks about it, Bucky _had_ mentioned, the first time they re-met and a few times since, the temporary nature of his current home. A place to get out of the city for a while, fix up, then make a profit from. And then--what? Go back to the city? Leave the state? The country??

 

Why hasn't this come up sooner?

 

“Steve?" Natasha asks, immediately suspicious.

 

"I'd hate that too," Steve answers Maria instead.

 

He’s quick to go back to Bucky for the rest of the evening, who immediately brightens when their eyes meet across the table. Whatever’s on Steve’s face must be telling, however, because Bucky cocks his head and mouths, _What is it?_

 

Instead of answering Steve starts to mouth back, _I love you._ Bucky’s face softens, just as Sam folds and the whole table lets out a chorus of groans and cheers, distracting Bucky. Steve rounds the table and sits at his side again. “I love you too,” he murmurs in Steve’s ears after dragging the pot to his stash. It’s inflected as a question.

 

Steve just kisses his ear quickly and promises, “Later.” And if he puts his head on Bucky’s boyfriend's shoulder for the rest of the game, it's only to keep him close while he can.

 

Steve _could_ leave, he reasons a few days later while elbows deep in a shortbread dough. 

 

He isn't necessarily tied down here, considering the nature of his profession. If Bucky wanted to move at some point down the road, and they were serious enough, Steve could easily go with him. As long as the place had wi-fi, that is.

 

But he could also easily stick this fork in his eye--doesn't mean he wouldn't hate it. There's no denying, Steve _won't_ leave. Not just because this was his mother's house, though that's a major part of it. But because Mar Vell is home. He looks back fondly on his time in college living in the city, finding purpose, finding love, finding himself . . . but Steve would never go back. 

 

He's found a place where he belongs.

 

A wrestle of wills ensues the following weeks, however, between his firmly planted roots and his hopelessly enraptured heart. Which he often finds counting down the minutes until Bucky is off work, driving home, coming over. Things aren’t settling down between them--Steve feels more and more in love each day. It’s frankly terrifying.

 

There are great things about it, of course. Despite his boyfriend’s protests, Steve almost always is the one who makes dinner for both of them. It’s horribly domestic of him, but there are some aspects of domesticity that Steve loves. Like Bucky coming in the door without knocking, announcing his presence as he toes off his shoes. Like Steve letting him know when dinner will be ready. Like asking about each other’s day over the meal, and talking between intermittent lazy kisses on the couch at one of their houses afterwards, while some mindless sitcom plays in the background.

 

Steve is in the midst of doing just that, one cold February evening at Bucky’s place, when his mind suddenly assaults him again with the reality of Bucky leaving him. It’s terrible timing, as he’s riled up enough to want more than kissing at the moment, but the idea plagues his previously one-track mind. Filling his head with Bucky selling this place, packing up one day, going back to the city, and, even if they tried long-distance, not coming home to him every evening--

 

“Do you like it here?” Steve jerks away and blurts.

 

Bucky blinks up at him with a disoriented expression, licking his spit-slick lips. “Huh?”

 

“Living here,” Steve clarifies, glancing around Bucky’s house briefly. Bucky just frowns at him, so he adds, “Would you stay here? Ya know, for good?”

 

“No,” Bucky says immediately, and Steve’s heart plummets.

 

“Why not?” he demands.

 

Bucky for some infuriating reason chuckles, like this is some joke. “Still smells like grandpa, Steve. And you’re not helping.”

 

Steve sighs and lets Bucky go back to kissing him, because that’s at least better than this conversation.

 

The very next day, Steve brings him a load of Scentsy products (courtesy of the eccentric Mantis, a newer member of Peter Quill’s ever growing household) only for Bucky to laugh more, and say, “Now it’ll smell like _grandma_.”

 

He tries to let it go, at least for the meantime. Bucky didn't exactly mention leaving _soon_. Steve manages to not think about it, or at least quickly distract himself when the worry comes, until a few weeks into March when Bucky goes on a business trip for Stark Industries. Then, Steve gets a real taste of what it’s like to be without him. After three days of quiet, he’d compare the experience to accidentally putting a tablespoon of salt in a mix instead of a teaspoon. Or eating a whole spoonful of straight cream of tartar. 

 

Five days into his absence, Steve’s mashing sweet potato for his third experimental muffie recipe of the day when the thought comes that maybe Bucky would stay if they were closer. Sexually speaking. Steve’s not sure what else they could do to live more in each other’s pockets than they already are. Since their first time back in December--Steve’s first time ever--they’ve yet to graduate from mutual handjobs to anything besides some frottage and the one time Bucky used his mouth for a few minutes.

 

Steve honestly just hasn’t felt ready. Or felt the need to go any faster than they are. But maybe if Bucky truly knew Steve wanted him . . . that this wasn’t one-sided, or some dead-end relationship, or . . .

 

“I’m doing it,” he calls Natasha and reports, getting his phone all sticky with cookie dough and probably gunking up the receiver even more--he _really_ needs a new phone.

 

“You--huh?” 

 

“I’m pressuring _myself_. I just caught myself doing it,” he says, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

 

“Slow down Steve,” she answers slowly. “Are you talking about . . .”

 

“Now you’re the one who can’t say it? Yes, sex, I’m talking about _sex_ Natasha,” Steve snaps. He blows out a breath, and continues, “I’m talking myself into it because I don’t want to lose him. But that’s the thing! I really, really don’t, so right now it feels pretty much worth it, just for the fact full-blown fucking doesn’t sound near as unappealing as never seeing him again--”

 

“Wait! Stop a second. Why are we assuming Bucky is leaving you again? If he’s not pressuring you--”

 

“Not consciously, no.” Steve sighs into his phone, leaning against the counter and probably getting flour all over his ass. “But. Nat, he’s not planning on staying here, not for more than a few years.”

 

“. . . okay? And?”

 

“And?” Steve repeats in bewilderment. “And I’m here! For good! This it it, for me. And . . . apparently I haven’t given him good enough reason to want to stay, too.”

 

Natasha at once sounds livid. “Steven Rogers, if you so much as fucking _imply_ again that you aren’t enough for anyone on this planet--”

 

“ _I know_ . I know, Nat, but . . .” Steve feels his throat close up, and gets all croaky as he admits, “But I’m fucking tired of the same old shit. This time I _want_ him. And I want him to stay.”

 

Natasha’s voice goes soft as she says, “I get it. I really do.”

 

That reminds Steve to ask, “You and Sam . . . ?”

 

“Broke up yesterday.”

 

Steve legitimately gasps. “And you didn’t call me??”

 

“I was about to,” she admits, sounding honest. “Just needed time to think. We didn’t end things badly, we just . . . I never let him in. Not the first time a guy has told me that.”

 

“Not me,” Steve argues. 

 

“Yeah, that’s never been an issue with you, for some reason,” she laughs, then is quiet for a moment before adding, “Maybe that’s the real challenge. Sex and love are two different puzzles-- everyone's hoping for ‘that someone’ who’s compatible with us on both. But usually we find people with only one matching piece.”

 

“Well I think for only having one matching piece, you and I got the better of the two to fit,” Steve says, smiling when she snorts.

 

Then Natasha’s voice gets serious again. “And you and Bucky?” she asks.

 

“I love him,” Steve replies simply. Whatever he decides to do or not do about it, that won’t change.

 

When Bucky returns the next day, he comes through the door so quickly Steve has only a second to realize he’s not getting robbed before his boyfriend jumps on him in the kitchen.

 

“Steve, Stevie, god I missed your face,” Bucky says in between kisses, laughing when Steve loses balance and has to set him down on the counter.

 

“Hi,” Steve says, breathless but elated. He rubs their noses together for a second, then asks, “Bed?”

 

Bucky latches his mouth back on Steve’s in answer, enthusiastically kissing and groaning when Steve grabs him by the thighs and carries Bucky to his bedroom straddled around his waist.

 

“Remind me to _never_ complain about you being a gym rat again,” he says when Steve drops him on his bed, looking flushed and excited and perfect. Having him under Steve like this, wanting _him_ , does wonders for his confidence as he relieves Bucky of his button-up shirt, kissing down to his happy trail. 

 

“Mmm what are you up to?” Bucky asks in slight surprise when Steve continues even further down with his mouth, nosing and mouthing at the lines of Bucky’s dick in his pants.

 

“What do you think?” Steve laughs, more confident than he feels.

 

But it isn’t so difficult, turns out. He doesn’t manage to get much of Bucky in his mouth like Bucky could for him, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Anytime he glances up at Bucky, he’s staring down at him with lust-blown eyes and a parted mouth, breathing heavily. Clearly enjoying what Steve can manage.

 

At a certain point, with Steve sucking on the head of the cock and stroking the rest with his hand, Bucky reaches out with a desperate note of warning. Steve sucks harder and is rewarded with a release of come down his throat, enough he has to pull off to swallow.

 

The noises Bucky makes, the way his hips jerk and his legs twitch, the tight grip of his hand on Steve’s shoulder as he slowly strokes him through the aftershocks-- _this_ , Steve loves about sex with Bucky. How it truly feels like an act of love between them, something to show what he already feels for him. 

 

And Bucky tugging at his shoulder to come back up, kissing him messily, and bringing Steve off with a hand--is amazing because it's Bucky showing that back.

 

They keep lazily kissing after Steve comes and they clean up, just soaking up being together after the time lost. 

 

“So glad I’m back,” is the first thing Bucky says, before kissing his nose. 

 

He’s also scratching fingernails through Steve’s short hair and into his scalp, so it takes Steve another minute or two to process the words. And then realize the implications. “Don’t hate your grandpa house so much after all, then?” he asks, trying not to sound too hopeful.

 

Bucky sits up with a frown, narrowing his eyes at Steve. “Okay, out with it. Why do you want me to like the Old Ross house so bad?”

 

“It could be a good place!” Steve defends, shrugging. “You could renovate it for yourself, see if you like it enough to stay--”

 

“And die there an old grandpa myself, huh? That what you want me to do?” Bucky asks with a raised brow.

 

“Well, no . . . obviously you’d eventually . . .” _be with me_ , Steve doesn't finish. Then his breath hitches. He finally realizes what Bucky’s getting at.

 

In his defense, Steve’s never really done this relationship thing before. He knew how to kiss better than he knew social cues for romantic relationships, and that wasn't saying much. For some reason Steve hadn’t even considered that Bucky’s mentions of not liking his house has been a _hint_ , not a warning. 

 

“You still like Mar Vell, though?” Steve makes sure, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

 

“Yes. I even tolerate some of my neighbors,” he says with a wink, poking Steve in the sternum.

 

"So if, after a good long while of course, one day, you were asked, by one of said tolerable neighbors I mean, if you'd like to stick around--"

 

" _Yes_ , Steve!" Bucky laughs, exasperated.

 

"I didn't finish!" Steve protests. He brushes a lock of hair out of Bucky's face and says, "What if it was really horrible? Like having you shave all your hair off?"

 

"I could rock a buzz cut," Bucky says with a smirk, and Steve rolls his eyes before leaning down to kiss it off him.

 

"Would you move in with me?" he asks seriously a few minutes later. 

 

Bucky's hair is a mess and his mouth is properly red and swollen from Steve nibbling at it, eyes bright with excitement as slowly he answers, "I _would_."

 

But the 'would' is emphasized on purpose, Steve can tell. He lets out a put upon sigh and corrects himself, " _Will_ you move in with me?"

 

Bucky's wide grin is worth it. "Soon as I sell the grandpa house? Yes."

 

"It really isn't that bad, Buck--"

 

"Steve, there's _duck_ wallpaper lining the bathroom--"

 

"You can paint over it!"

 

"I thought we'd moved past you wanting me to die there--"

 

(It went on.)


	6. An apron is just a cape on backwards PART TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally did it, guys. Ugh. Wow, Endgame screwed me, but thanks to your wonderful support and not a small amount of diet coke, this thing is DONE.

By the next 4th of July, a lot has changed.

 

Steve actually has a birthday celebration, for one. A small one, with only Natasha and Bucky’s sisters, but a party bigger than he’s had in 5 years. Bucky insists he doesn’t toe an inch into the kitchen all day, so Steve spends the morning editing and posting his last patriotic cookie recipe for the year--the swirl cookies from the day Bucky and Steve re-met. As well as looking over the many messages he’s received about the extra set of hands in his most recent Pride cookie video. Steve figures he’ll leave them in suspense for a bit longer. Meanwhile he can hear Bucky and his sisters over the music they have playing, but not well enough to have a clue what they’re up to.

 

His jaw drops nearly to the floor when Bucky opens his bedroom door wearing trousers and a tailcoat in perfect regency style, complete with a high collar and long socks. Grinning widely, he holds up a bag of what Steve can guess is his own costume.

 

“B . . . but--Buck?” he splutters intelligently, and Bucky’s grin only grows wider.

 

All that coupled with his hair ttied back in a low pony, if there wasn’t his sisters in the other room Steve would jump right here right now.

 

As it is he manages to nod, take the clothing, and only fangirl a little when he comes out ten minutes later to see Bucky, his sisters, and Natasha--also dressed in lovely Victorian fashion--around a parlour table sipping tea.

 

“You love me a lot, huh?” Steve asks with disbelief. 

 

Bucky raises his teacup with a flourished hand in answer.

 

Hours later, when they’ve stripped out of the beautiful albeit uncomfortable clothing and finally finished watching “North and South” on Netflix, Steve gets his cry-out when the protagonist’s father dies, thinking of his mom and how much he’d like for her to have met Bucky. How the two would tease him and lift him and advise him together, and become friends themselves. It’s hard, to reconcile the fact that will never happen. Bucky holds him through it without saying a word, except the occasional mumbled “love you” against his hair. And by the end Steve feels better than he has in 5 years, all cried out and tender but not alone and comfortless like usual. He’s honestly okay when it’s time to head to Tony’s annual party. 

 

Steve is wearing sweat pants and a T-shirt this time, and holding hands with the most beautiful person on the planet. But more importantly to everyone else--his hands are empty of cookies.

 

“Peter bringing the batch?” Drax asks uncertainly as they passed him in Tony’s backyard. Steve just shakes his head in answer. Thor invites them to play the next croquet game, and life goes on.

 

That evening they sit watching the sun set on Bucky’s back porch, which is possibly the best view Steve has seen in a while, when Bucky sighs, “Hmm, I could get used to this,” leaning his head on Steve’s shoulder.

 

Steve laughs. “Thought the grandpa house didn’t suit you?”

 

He can practically hear Bucky rolling his eyes. “Naw, but in the case you finally realize what a catch you are and leave me in the dust, at least I’ll have a beautiful lookout to cry from.”

 

Steve turns his head, leaning back. “That won’t happen.”

 

“But you are a catch, Steve--”

 

“No, no, the ‘leaving you in the dust’ part. Not gonna happen, pal,” Steve says.

 

Bucky looks down, his expression rueful. “You’ve only ever been with me,” he says, playing for nonchalance. “I wouldn’t blame you if eventually, you--well, there’s a lot of fish in the sea. I’ll still be around.”

 

“Love isn’t about experience,” Steve says slowly, encompassing one of Bucky’s hands in both of his. “Or about fate, or about luck. The best way I could make sure you are ‘the one,’ if there is such a thing, is to stay right here. It’s about  _ time _ \--and I’d like to spend all my time, for the rest of time, with you.”

 

It’s a cheesy thing to say, but with the sun setting behind them and the enraptured look on Bucky’s face as he leans forward, meeting Steve’s lips with his own, Steve can’t find it in himself to care. It’s a small kiss, in the grand scheme of things, but the soft pressure of Bucky’s mouth against his own feels like expressing words they can’t say--something closer, more intimate than just the words, ‘I love you.’ When they lean back, Bucky smiles and announces, “Someone is looking at the house.”

 

Three months later, he hands over the keys to the Eternals family, who Steve then gifts with a signature round box of Captain Cookie goodies as a warm neighborly welcome. When they walk back home--to  _ their _ home, Steve thinks gleefully--it’s been more than a full year since the night he and Bucky kissed. 

 

And he wants to try something.

 

Bucky laughs when he picks him up bridal style before crossing the threshold, carrying Bucky easily as he deposits the keys and kicks open his-- _ their _ \--bedroom door. Bucky keeps giggling when Steve drops him on the bed, immediately leaving a trail of kisses down his arm up to his neck. When Steve straddles him then, however, kissing more intently at Bucky’s neck, his laughter changes to soft crooning, his hips rising gently against Steve as he nibbles at a place on Bucky’s ear that always gets him going.

 

“Steve,” Bucky says, and it used to feel like a warning, a tell that Bucky would need to stop soon if they weren’t going any further than this. But right now it sounds like a plea, begging from the man below him at Steve’s mercy. The thought warms his whole body in a way Steve rarely experiences, and definitely wants to take advantage of.

 

“Next time you’re wearing those breeches,” he mumbles against Bucky’s skin, before finally claiming his mouth. He can only imagine how turned on he’d get with Bucky wearing  _ that _ on his bed.

 

A few minutes later, both divested of clothing, Bucky says around his gasps, “N-next time?”

 

“Next time I do this,” Steve says with more confidence than he feels. Then his hand, currently squeezing Bucky’s ass, starts trailing further, towards the small pucker he’s only felt a few times before. 

 

“Shit, shit stop, I’m gonna--” Bucky suddenly says, flinching back. Steve is up and completely off him in the next second, heart beating fast for an entirely different reason.

 

“I’m so sorry, did I--”

 

“No, no,” Bucky laughs, one hand around his cock, squeezing. He lays his head back against the mattress with a sigh, saying, “I didn’t want it to be over before we got started.”

 

It finally all clicks, and Steve has to laugh as well. “I thought I hurt you or, or something,” he shakes his head, before leaning forward and pecking Bucky’s pectoral.

 

The other man shakes his head too, smiling softly. “It was cute how quick you stopped though,” he says, before drawing Steve back in with his arms. “But I’m not sure I have any boundaries, personally.”

 

“I’ve got enough for both of us,” Steve says, to which Bucky shrugs.

 

“Now, where were we?”

 

Steve grabs lube from the bedside drawer and starts fingering him again, keeping Bucky busy with touches and kisses as he slides a finger in. 

 

“I’m not a virgin, Steve,” Bucky laughs at one point, when Steve has stalled at two fingers.

 

“Yeah, well I  _ am _ ,” he grumbles before nipping Bucky’s neck, making the other man sigh.

 

“Oh  _ shit _ ,” Bucky says a few minutes later, when Steve enters him with his cock, grip tightening at Steve’s waist. When Steve gives him a concerned look he just says, “Not a virgin, but uh, forgot it’s been so long.”

 

“Do you wanna--”

 

“Keep going, I’m sure you were about to say? Yes, yes I do--”

 

Steve rolls his eyes and thrusts just a little deeper, cutting off whatever crass remark Bucky’d started. After a minute they find a gentle rhythm together, and Steve can’t get over how it feels. As if they are one being, two halves of one converging whole. “I love you,” he breathes against Bucky’s cheek as he thrusts, and hears Bucky whimper in answer.

 

When things speed up a bit Bucky whispers, “Hold me down, Stevie.” 

 

He’s asked a few times--mostly when during frottage, when Steve is more dominant anyways. And Steve feels a thrill go down his spine as he acquiesces, grabbing Bucky by the wrists with each hand and pinning him down as he thrusts harder.

 

“Oh, oh god,” Bucky breathes, and Steve gasps when he feels him intentionally clench around him.

 

He comes much too quickly, though it’s one of the better times Steve’s experienced in his life. The second he lets go of Bucky’s wrists the other man wrings himself out with Steve still inside, clenching and fluttering around him to the point of overstimulation.

 

“That was,” Steve starts once he pulls out, but Bucky moans and rolls them over, claiming his mouth lazily before he can finish the sentence. 

 

“Next time we’re both wearing the britches,” Bucky whispers, making them both laugh. 

 

Steve would say he’s missed out, considering how amazing that was. But looking back, at that night he and Bucky almost did the same act as strangers, Steve can’t find it in himself to regret the past. He needed it like this--an emotional release of what had built between them for more than a year, not a simple release of tension or a badge for ‘just doing it.’

 

When he kisses Bucky’s sleeping eyelids, his boyfriend, lover, and one and only, Steve truly wouldn’t change a thing. Not about Bucky, not about their relationship--and not about himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my other fics for more stucky madness! And, of course, comments make all this hard work so worth it <3


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